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xbunnybunz · 3 years

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circhester city blues [hop x reader]

Summary: Hop finds you at outside at midnight, mulling over some personal thoughts. He extends some much needed words of comfort, and a little bit more.

Genre: Fluff

Date: July 12, 2020

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Circhester was unlike anything you had ever seen before.

Snowflakes drifted slowly from the sky, brushing over the city with a crispy new layer of snow. The cold nighttime air was serene, moving languidly over your exposed cheekbones and fingertips and leaving you slightly shuddering. A hum of gentle music floated softy in the breeze, sounding quite melancholy and tearful.

You lean over the railing on the higher point of the city, eyes taking in the scene of the city of snow. The sensation of snowflakes grazes your skin with a soft nip, melting away and leaving you yearning for more than that gossamer touch.

You close your eyes to eternalize this memory, the sweet and delicate song echoing in the distance and the soft glow of nighttime snow flurries dancing before your eyes. It is times like these, where you’re away from the crowds and cheering of fans, do you get the time to reflect on your journey.

The beginning of this trek seemed so long ago. The hazy memories of Postwick and its endless expanse of green fields leave you feeling bittersweet. As much as you miss home and the feeling of waking up at home in your soft bed, the smell of freshly cooked omlettes wafting from the kitchen, you’ve been beginning to ponder the end of your journey.

The heights and lulls of your adventure fill you with purpose, and every morning you wake up with a mission in mind. Other times, when the excitement dies down and the sun begins to dwindle behind the horizon, you can set up your tent and lay under the stars, counting the specks of light until the coos of your pokemon lull you to sleep.

That is something that, with all its glorious, warm sunshine and creaking cottage houses, Postwick cannot give you.

You watch as one by one, houses lining the streets illuminate with life from the inside. Families come together for supper, their shadows dancing across the cobblestone path lined with a thin layer of snow. You wonder if you’re selfish for not wanting to return home- not wanting this chapter of your life to be over so soon.

Tomorrow was the day you were scheduled to battle Melony, the Ice type gym leader and sixth hurdle to completing your Pokemon Gym Challenge. You think back to your first challenge against Milo, and wonder why you’re not feeling the same jittery feeling in your stomach.

The first night before your first gym battle, you were kept awake by the visions of battle and victory. You recall recounting the potential battle strategies you could use against the grass type leader in your sleep, which led to a night of tossing and turning in Bedew Hotel.

You sigh, your breath making small puffs of clouds in the air. You look down, clenching and unclenching your fists to get blood flowing back into your fingers. There had been a lot you encountered in your travels, all of which would’ve never found had you stayed in your hometown.

You had the chance to step into the battle arena, the stadium pumped full of life and vivacity that made your ears ring and heart swell. The cries of millions watching from home set your soul ablaze, and the urge to pursue your dreams had never been stronger. Amidst your challenge, you met many new and beautiful souls, both in battles and in passing. Each had their own stories and dreams to follow, burning with the passion of life. Their voices rang in your ears as you crept through the dusty Galar mines and scaled the Turrfield ruins, the experiences lives bleeding into yours and coloring you with wonder and devotion.

Many days as you waded through the wild area, you wondered if the sun ever burned so bright back at home. With enough warmth to sear your skin, warm your bones and bleach the heavens with nothing but clear, blue skies. Every night, you find yourself in awe that the starry night sky expanded so far over the horizon, deep, dark and heavy. You always question if it’s the same sky you see through your little window at home, hanging humbly over your desk in a wooden frame.

As the snow falls upon your face, you turn skyward, beholding the moon in all its lustrous, ephemeral beauty. It drips with tantalizing fullness, the light spilling over to speckle stars into the unfathomably darkening night. It hangs heavily in the inky blackness, as if even the skies aren’t large enough to hold it up.

You catch yourself thinking about who you were, and who you are. You wonder if the journey has allowed you to grow too much, too large for your modest little hometown.

The crisp sound of snow underfoot breaks the spell of silence, but you don’t need to look to know who it is.

A violet haired boy leans on the barristrade beside you, a relaxed smile stretching across his face and lighting his eyes.

“Fancy catching you out here,” He teases. “Pondering the mysteries of the universe?”

You see him staring at you from the periphery of your vision. You kick at the snow by the ledge, watching it fall into the fountain underneath.

“Not quite, but I was getting there before you came along.”

Hop laughed, and it was bold and rectifying. It echoed off the brick walls and concrete statues to warm your heart, and soon your cheeks.

“A right ruckus you are. How can you stand out here for so long and still have mysteries unsolved?”

You stutter, feeling quite abashed he had called you out on your glooming. “It hasn’t been that long! I was just… Admiring the view.”

Hop’s smile softens, and in the warm yellow light of the streetlamps, his eyes look like dark pools of swirling honey.

The way he carries himself is new, yet familiar. You know he’s the same Hop that left Postwick with you all those months ago, and yet seeing him like this reminds you that you have not been the only one growing. His exuberant flame is still there, licking at the edges of his smile and playing at the corners of his eyes. But somehow, he seems more mellow, more willing to stop for a second before surging forwards like the freight engine you’ve always known.

They’re all small shifts, but bring you comfort nonetheless, knowing you’re not the only one who may feel out of place. Hop’s the one thing in your adventures that remained constant despite change, as sturdy as an anchor in the raging sea.

When you look at him in the dull glow of the moon, you feel like you have a fragment home in your hands. You see tanned skin and the sun-kissed freckles that faintly pepper his cheeks, a signature mark of a Postwick Wooloo herder. It contrasts greatly with the snow that has settled onto his hair and the fur lining his denim jacket, as Postwick doesn’t often have cold seasons.

“What are you doing out here, anyways?” You ask.

Hop peers over the rising, and then up at the sky. “I was looking for you.”

Your heart throbs at the way he speaks so candidly. “For me? Don’t you think I can handle myself, now?”

He chokes, and waves his hands. “No, that’s not what I meant! What I mean to say is…”

He places a hand on the nape of his neck, now his turn to feel embarrassed. “It’s a force of habit, I guess? It was always my job to fetch you before supper back in Postwick, before you got your first pokemon.”

You grin and give him a bit of a shove with your shoulder to let him know you were joking. He stumbles a tad, but recovers quickly with a mirthful smile, gladly settling back into his place next to you.

“It’s been a while, huh?” You say.

Hop leans heavily on the balustrade, crossing one long leg behind the other. “More than a while. I still remember how you cried when I caught my Wooloo, you were so worried I’d leave for the pokemon challenge without you.”

You laughed at the memory, but the distance between then and now makes you a bit teary-eyed.

“Would you have?”

Hop smiled at the thought, but shook his head. “No, I’ve always known I wanted to start the challenge with you as my rival. But I’ll admit, I really thought I was ready to take on the world at the time, just my level three Wooloo and me.”

You giggled and he reddened, though you were unsure if it was from the cold or being flustered.

“Thanks, Hop. That means a lot to me. I wouldn’t rather have anyone else by my side for this wild ride.”

He grins at you, taken aback and flattered all at once. “Oh, geez. I’m real glad to hear you say that, but don’t think I’ll go easy on you just because you said that!”

“Drat, I thought flattery would work for sure this time.”

You roll your eyes and subconsciously lean into him a bit more for warmth, though it doesn’t go unnoticed by him.

He blushes, a deep red reaching the tips of his ears and sticking a lump in his throat. He swallows thickly, and doesn’t say anything for the longest time.

You watch as the moon silhouettes the lightpoles in the air, overtaking their light with its own. Hop notices your silence, gives you a small smile.

“What have you been thinking about?” He asks, breaking the stillness.

You pull back from him, and you think you see a flash of disappointment across his face, but it’s gone as soon as it came.

“What do you mean?”

Hop shakes his head at you, the snow in his hair catching the illumination of the moon and making him seem almost otherworldly. “You’ve been gone since we finished eating dinner with Sonia. There’s not much sightseeing to do here, especially after the sun sets.”

You look at the city again to confirm his words, and find that he’s right. You’ve been moping about on your lonesome in the drape of the night, thinking about the inevitable end to the story you’ve waited so long to experience.

You figure that if anyone else can understand you, it’s Hop, the boy who’s grown up beside you all your life.

“Do you ever not want this to end?” You ask, snowflakes catching on your eyelashes and melting away just as quickly.

Hop doesn’t speak, and you take this as a sign to continue.

“This is the most I’ve ever seen of the world, and it’s far more beautiful than anything I could’ve ever imagined. I want to keep feeling the wind in my hair when I take flying taxis to the next gym, and I want to always feel the sand brewing into a storm in the battle arena. I want to keep meeting new people, meeting new goals and making new aspirations. I don’t ever want to stop chasing this dream, but I know that I’m going to catch up to it one day. And what happens then? “

You turn to him, your eyes sparkling alongside all the stars in the sky. “I don’t know if I’ll ever belong in Postwick anymore, or anywhere at all for that matter. The stars reach too far, and the sun moves too quickly for me to just go home and watch them when I know I could be out here, running after them.”

You shudder, the cold air nipping at your skin through your thin jacket. “Every step forwards feels like a step backwards, too. The closer I get to finishing this challenge, the sooner I know I’ll have to go back home.”

Your shoulders slump, and you can’t help but sigh softly, dejectedly. Mist collects in the night air at your exhale, and evaporates.

You’re surprised to feel something thick and heavy descend upon your shoulders, cocooning you in warmth and the familiar scent of pine. You look up, and your cheek brushes worn Wooloo fur.

“Hop, you’ll catch a cold.” You say, moving to shrug off his denim jacket. But he places his hand on your back, firmly holding the jacket in place. He gives you a smile and it’s enough for you to drop your efforts.

“Keep it on, you’re shivering.”

You keep eye contact with him a beat too long, but he doesn’t say anything when you turn away.

For a long moment, you wonder if he would respond and feel silly for asking him these things. When he speaks again, his voice clear in the crisp snowfall, you’re taken by surprise.

“I think every adventure is richest with a definite ending. It means we achieved what we set out to do.” He says.

“But the most important part's gotta be finding new pieces of yourself to explore, and that’ll never expire. You’re right, we may be done with this part of our journey, but now we know what drives our hearts. Without going through this, we would never know how many more stories lie ahead, ready for us to learn from.”

Hop turns to you, eyes gleaming, drawing you in.

“And I don’t know about you, but it means the world to me that I get to go on my first big adventure with my closest friend. It helped me realize that I have a lot to learn from other people, and a lot to learn from you, too.”

You feel your heart twinge and pulse quicken at the tone in his voice. You divert your eyes to the buildings behind Hop instead, unable to bear his intensity, and take in the lights dwindling with silhouettes of families ready to sleep. He presses on, voice bordering almost on a whisper now.

“I can’t wait to become the person I’m meant to be, (y/n). And I can’t wait to see the person you’ll become too. I really want to tell you all the things I know I’ll be amazed by in the future, but even more than that, I want you to be there beside me, like now, so we can both learn from it together. I know there’s so much more out there for the both of us.”

Your eyes prick with tears, and the moon and the stars and the streetlights all blur together into one large and glistening mosaic.

“Hop… Thank you. I don’t think you know how much I needed to hear that right now.”

You reach up and brush away your tears, blood rushing in your ears when you realized Hop’s hand never left your back.

“I’ve just been so worried about everything. The challenge, our sponsors, and that strange gigantamax energy showing up everywhere. But now that the end seems so close, I was worried I’d be left unfulfilled.”

Every inhale you take smells like him, and it’s calming and electrifying at the same time. The stars twinkling overhead seemed dull in comparison to the glint in hazel eyes, shining with endless ambition yet such patience.

“But?” He asked, a puff of cold mist trailing from his lips, beckoning.

“You were right. There is more for us out there, more than either of us could begin to imagine. And I can’t wait to see it all.”

He smiles again, softly. Dimples push at his cheeks, and you suddenly really want to hold his hand. So you do.

His fingers are rough from years of wrestling Wooloo, but his hands are still large and warm. When you slip your hand into his, he doesn’t hesitate to thread his fingers through yours, and it’s a perfect fit.

You sneak a glance up at him again, and this time it’s his turn to be abashed. His cheeks are tinged pink, and his gaze is directed towards the water, the soft rippling casting a calm glow on his frame.

“Hop?”

He startles at your voice, and you can barely hold back a chuckle.

“Hm? Yeah?”

“Did you mean what you said before? About us?”

He pulls his gaze back to you, face still flushed but voice thick with earnestness.

“Of course I meant it.”

The words swell a happiness in your stomach, and you look up at him, admiring the unruliness of his hair and the softness of his features basking in the nighttime sky, contrasted by a pair of sunny yellow eyes that speckled like amber in the dark. Then you really looked at him.

You looked into his eyes and saw gold, as vivid and overflowing as the wheat fields back in Postwick you both spent years running up and down in autumn. You saw endless humid summers of climbing trees and splashing in lakes, you saw the boy who picked you up and carried you home when you slipped on the stairs just outside the village, and the boy who you got into a fist fight for because someone called his hair funny. You looked at him and recounted all these memories, of the times you had laughed together, and cried together. When you looked at him, you saw your rock, your inspiration and your best friend- perhaps now, something even more.

You reached up to brush a hand against his cheek, skin cold then blossoming with warmth under your touch.

He leans into your palm, eyes burning and never leaving your own.

The moon hung low in the sky now, full and heavy with a pearlescent sheen that inked your shadows into the stone floor, standing closer now than ever before.

Hop whispered your name, the warm air washing over you and drawing goosebumps. You hummed in response, much too lost in your trance to respond with words.

“I'm really glad we're here right now.”

A knot closes in your throat and a gentle warmth spreads across your face at the sincerity of his words. You’re not sure how to respond, so you just draw yourself closer to him. He dips his head to meet you halfway, and in a single slow and blissful moment, the space between you and Hop dwindles down to zero.

His lips are soft and chaste, moving with a slow and tender languidness that made your legs wobble and knees buckle. You grip at his shirt for support and he responds by pulling you flush against him, arm looping around your waist and the other hand still sweetly holding onto yours.

When it ends, you’re both breathless and red in the cheeks. He rests his forehead on yours and his eyes are deep and endless; pupils blown and hair askew, tickling your face and blushing your cheeks.

The snow nipping at your clasped hands is a reminder that the universe is moving everywhere around you. Yet time feels slowed and perfect, and the world, though large, seems to fit lovingly intertwined between your fingers.

Your bodies are languorous and barely want to untangle, but Hop laughs at the snow collected in your hair. You wonder how even in the cold night, his laughter is full and round and warm. You can feel his body, pressed against yours, trembling from the cold without his denim jacket. You tease him for this, but do it with a grateful smile while wrapped in the scent of Hop.

The night had grown long and with it came the dropping temperatures.

“Let’s head back to Ionia Hotel, we should get some rest before taking down Melony tomorrow, don't you reckon?” Hop asks cheekily, despite his tousled hair and labored breathing.

You want to poke fun at him some more, but bite your tongue. Instead, you nod and began your trek together with him, hands still linked and hearts ever pounding under the cape of the shimmering, expanding night sky, and look to the future.

#pokemon #pokemon sword and shield #pokemon sword and shield hop #fanfiction #reader insert #hop x reader

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kneipho · 3 years

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Sumbitted by: @mantrabay

Ballroom In The Sky.

Gazing with his mouth wide open towards a sullen evening sky dotted with jet black clouds

Geoff Wild weeps.

He was on his knees on this grass-strewn, unkempt graveyard.

Two years later and her memory still lingers.

The sudden passing of his loved one had left this middle-aged man gaunt, ashen faced and skeletal. Wild’s troubled expression had become a haunted house of uncanny notions and strange secrets waiting to flow from his water-logged eyes. Those circumstances surrounding Violet’s death were never clear.

Velvet Heart was Geoff’s courtship name for Violet.

Was it a death wish or an accidental fall from their elegant townhouse?

Death through misadventure was the colourful term used.

“Cherish all those wonderful experiences we had. Whichever one of us dies first.”

Violet actually said.

Almost as if she had some premonition.

This was six months before she passed away. .An endless see-saw of creepy dawning’s convulsed him.

Yet Wild fondly recalled when they first met at the Skyline Ballroom.

The Skyline was a battered tumbledown barn whose allure was its availability.

The chipped hardwood floor and the dusty pale cream walls with paint flakes that peeled off only confirmed its tenement status. It was known locally as the “Creaking Beam”” due to its ghostly acoustics and flickering lights. Here in this spooky venue Geoff and Violet had their earliest encounter. Wild remembered her radiant smiles.

The ripples of long dark hair, her apple blossom cheeks and of course her angelic aura..

On that night she wore a polka dot ruche dress, amethyst ear pendants, whilst sporting satin moccasins.

“Have I the gumption? The courage.

A faint heart etc.” Geoff could hear his heart flutter as he did his tightrope walk toward her.

“May I dance with you?” Geoff asked.

Velvet heart’s hands formed a lazy arch and her dainty fingers curled inwards.

“Of course. I would be delighted.” Violet spoke in that pear drop tone which beguiled everybody.

Geoff, the local journalist and writer was in seventh heaven.

They never forgot that enchanting song they first danced to, “Ballroom In The Sky.”

The song was performed by Valerie And The Blue Skies.

They weren’t very big but had a cult following..

Geoff could see how similar Violet and Valerie were.

They were mirror images of each other.

Even in speech and humour.

Valerie was based in a remote enigmatic area.

She used to refer to songs as role plays.

“You feel as though you are a member of the audience.” Valerie remarked.

Violet did admit to meeting Valerie casually and for autograph purposes but not otherwise or so it seemed.

It was amazing how “ Ballroom In The Sky” with its airy ascending rock chords and jaunty jazz lines could draw Violet, Valerie and Geoff into a peculiar triangle.

The sudden moody breaks, abrupt silences built a momentary cocoon.

Valerie’s top sideman….well, he was known as Silent Sam.

He had a track record of sorts.

Sam’s blue attire was appropriate.

He wore a large trilby hat tipped over his forehead sheltering his pointed face and pencil slim physique.

He, Sam, was short-sighted when it suited and eccentric.

Practical jokes were his forte and the impish grin.

“Yep ..Yup….or Sure.“

These were the only asides from this oddball sidemen for the most part.

He was accident prone.

Valerie had to indicate where things were. Theirs was a sign language of its own complete with slanted facial squirms.

One wondered if there was a deeper relationship between them.

Those Blue Skies airs were fillers without Sam.

Every time “Ballroom In The Sky” was played Valerie, Violet and Geoff were sharing unwittingly a secret.

The startled looks were part of this outlandish ritual.

Wild recalled now.

“Valerie could croon in a real hypnotic fashion. Everyone in the dancehall was enthralled. People would sway like ice skaters one moment, waltz in a swan-like manner the next and just as often rave in the isles like end of term teenagers.”

Geoff whispers in the graveyard.

“JUST A PASSING DREAM………..STILL SO VIVID…….DANCING IN HEAVEN…… KISSES ALL AROUND….MAGIC HAND……..A LITTLE BIT BLIND, and of course “BALLROOM IN THE SKY.”

Geoff and Violet would swing religiously to those fantasy songs every Sunday as their courtship blossomed.

“Ballroom In The Sky “ was always the highpoint.

This constellation of events occurred in a scenic nineteen seventies spot.

Despite its haunting vistas and backdrop of panoramic hills it resembled a ghost town. Openings were few against an infinite spiral of closing factories, bookstores with half-empty shelves and shopkeepers peering out of doors.

Ten years earlier it was a beacon. “I shudder to think……A jigsaw puzzle.”

Geoff surveying the cemetery.

Such memories could have been taken directly from some movie script. “Yes .. it was a hub that Skyline. Like homeless drifters, the folk who attended.”

Geoff again.

They were fugitives.

Escapees from that heavy-handed dole queue void.

Suddenly something happened.

“What the heavens is? Snap….a branch.” Momentary jitters engulfing Wild.

He shook in concert with the overarching colonnade of brown edge green leaf trees.

An eerie rustling dewdrop tiptoe now caressing Geoff’s ears.

”Up there somewhere Velvet Heart?

Dancing in the heavens?”

Nervous laughter now relief road to that traffic jam of sentiment about to speed off.

Glued to the spot that macabre sixth sense of Violet hovering above evaporates due to an illusory late evening sun shaft.

Wild could no longer hide from Valerie and Velvet Heart’s identities.

“Oh those comic jibes and piercing glances. Some ethereal intrigues were passing through the air.”

Geoff recalls with forensic clarity.

Poor Silent Sam would do his usual u-turn into the shadow.

Two months before Geoff’s and Violet’s parting, an incident occurred.

Memory is a lodger which steadfastly refuses to surrender its keys.

Valerie and the Blue Skies were in flying form as the tunes morphed into each other.

Valerie and Velvet Heart were magnets for men.

Violet caught Geoff off guard.

“Guilty conscience, there Geoff?”

Having fantasies about Valerie.

Focus on me.

As for that eternity ring remember?”

Those penetrating peepers of Violet knew how to vet a body in a flash.

“Oh no …..not at all.” Geoff with a looping

smirk.

“Just those mystical melodies working their spell.” He said.

“You came into my life like…. a new dawn.” Wild poetically.

“You honey tongue you. Geoff our song. Ballroom.” Violet mutters.

Valerie nodded towards Sam.

Her expression was a hard to decipher veil and deep code command.

“Get those fingers flying, Sam.”

In a tone almost identical to Velvet Heart.

Sam didn’t always act immediately.

“Yep.. Yup …Sure.” Sam’s stock retort.

“Ballroom In The Sky” now strong as ever cast its bewitching spell throughout the venue.

A medley was included tonight.

“SOMEONE FOR EVERYONE” ( Sam looked at Valerie), “A LITTLE BIT BLIND” ( Sam staring vacantly at both Valerie and Violet), “MIND YOUR STEP( Sam winking at Geoff while scrunching the mouth at Violet).

Violet edged toward the stage.

A dim-lit silence ensued.

Ballroom started again. Valerie and Violet now singing this tune. An eerie vacuum filled this dancehall.

A triangular crush of people occurred near the stage with Geoff in toe.

Valerie handed Violet a letter.

Sam was now talking tersely to Valerie.

A misted over photo gallery memory blur in place.

“Pst…Pst. Your Velvet Heart is back to haunt you.“ Violet’s lofty twang.

“What in the name….I can’t phantom…..fathom.” Geoff shudders.

Violet’s voice a wet whisper stretching over twigs that simultaneously tap against windows.

She pulled back an orchard pattern duvet covering Geoff.

“Fell asleep at your favourite film, The Passing Of A Velvet Heart. All those graveyard scenes shot in our small town remember?

We know Silent Sam wrote the soundtrack for the film along with Ballroom. He sings on that one.” Violet recounts.

“Incredibly you chose Velvet Heart as your courtship name for me based on the film.

The film was never a huge success but did get our area limited publicity.

Sam earned extra royalties from the soundtrack.

Valerie and Sam tying the knot next Sunday of all days.

As for that love letter you mumbled about.

It’s an invite to their secret wedding.

Very private. As Sam is.

What a time and place he chose for the invitation.

During that ethereal love song which brought us together.” Violet observes.

“Poor Sam’s a little bit blind a

on occasions or is he?

I was upstairs on the flat roof today.

Six months ago I fell off it.

You’ve never liked me being up there since.”

Violet continuing.

“Guilty secret must confess. I used to be onstage instead of Valerie.

Well, sometimes.

She was dating you pretending to be me.

We never knew each other that well but it was a dare worked out between us.“

Geoff shouted. “Hoodwinked.”

An incredulous look ripples over Wild’s pale face.

Violet’s eyes now ablaze.

“You never noticed did you? Deep down.”

The tease in Violet surfacing..

Geoff was thunderstruck.

Violet strolled towards their CD player on the mahogany table.

“Think you’ll like this one. Our song.”

Violet stated.

“May I dance with you?”

Geoff smiled. “Of course. I would be delighted.

And relieved!”

Silent Sam’s voice weaves in his own inimitable shy way a song usually sung by Valerie, his wife to be.

And sometimes Violet, or Velvet Heart.

A number that united three people in the most curious and otherworldly manner!

“Yep….Yup ….Sure.”

As Sam was in the habit of saying!

mantrabay photograph and short story copyright protected.

Thanks for reading my works

#mantrabay #submission sunday #reblog #written word #short story #fiction #submission #photographers on tumblr #photography #original photography #other #Ballroom In The Sky

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ladyartemesia · 4 years

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▨ Lady Artemesia’s Milestone Message and Milestone Fic Preview ▨

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Dear Mutuals and Followers,

When I started this blog nearly six months ago(ish?) I never expected to fall so in love with the lovely people in this community. You have been wonderful and supportive and I have truly enjoyed getting to know you, and talking to you, and loving BTS proudly alongside of you. Thank you for every moment, I have so many truly incredible moots - ALL of whom are SIGNIFICANTLY cooler than I am - and if I attempted to list you all, my perpetually scattered brain would no doubt forget someone and I’d have to fall apart dramatically about it. So...to all of you - thank you for following me. I am so bloomin thrilled that you do. To my amazing mutuals - each and every one of you are brilliant creators and supportive members of our community and I benefit every day from the art and positive energy you bring to my dash. Thank you so much...

to my hearts...

There are a few of you who have been much closer than others and you I must recognize with only these inadequate words...

I utterly adore you. Thank you for being my friend.

▨ Amazing Ana @xjoonchildx ▨ Wonderful Lindy @ppersonna ▨ Sweet Sunshine Donna @taetaewonderland ▨ My First Friend and Angel Jahni @glossyfever ▨ Fabulous Lemon @lemonjoonah ▨ and my fellow Thirst Queen Reese (there is a line in this fic I wrote just for you - you’ll prolly know right away) @luxekook ▨

Honestly there are many more names I could put on this list, Many more people I have grown close to and I will continue to grow close too - believe me when I say - I luv and appreciate you all, but there are 7 members of BTS and these 6 ladies are - in many ways - my “other 6.” The roles they have played in my growth as a writer and a creator have been significant. They read my work, encourage me, hype me up, share my finished products, and - most importantly - share their friendship. I am blessed to be a part of their world.

Thank You All... My Lovlies...

- Viola

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Heart of the Storm

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• FIC PREVIEW •

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Genre: Fluff • Smut • Hint of Angst • Secret Feelings/Strangers to Lovers

Word Count: 4kish (preview 1kish)

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort • Hints of Classism • JK is Soft and Strong (full fic has more warnings)

Rating: Explicit/18+ (for the full fic)

Summary: Jeon Jungkook is the handsome RA that you could never quite bring yourself to talk to, and you are the ice princess whose status kept you far out of his reach... But a selfless act of kindness in the midst of a terrible storm forges an unexpected bond between you - one that could break your guarded heart... or finally set it free.

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This is the song JK sings...

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You’re afraid of storms.

Born to privilege (at least so you’ve been told), but money could not buy the love of absent parents, nor could it purchase any sort of freedom from the kind of fear that gripped you now.

You shouldn’t even be here...

Alone in a dorm while everyone around you caught planes and trains and buses back to their diverse points of origin.

The girl who usually slept in the bed across from yours is your roommate and best friend since sophomore year of high school. She was a scholarship case at the elite private prep where the obscenely wealthy dynasties of Southern California sent their entitled spawn.

A lone pair of Chuck Taylors in a sea of Jimmy Choos.

And a breath of fresh air.

Her father worked in stores; your father owned them. Yet you had become sisters in the truest sense of the word.

When the storms came, she climbed into your bed and held you till the thunder died down.

But she and the comfort of her familiar embrace were 30,000 feet above you now; well on the way to celebrate the spring holidays with her chaotic tribe.

You could have escaped for the week - like the majority of your peers - but your father was on vacation with his new wife (who graduated from high school a mere four years before you did) and the dorms were infinitely more inviting than the sterile halls of your family’s real estate holdings.

So here you were.

Alone in a storm.

Or so you thought...

Being an RA looked good on resumes and paid better than most work study jobs, but for Jeon Jungkook, the obligation to stay in the dorms over spring break (when he could be chasing music festivals along the California coast) was a definite downside.

He heard the sobs on his way up from the laundry and dropped the basket of clean clothes on the stairs.

Only one person signed up to stay over the holidays - the only person who managed to spark shivers down his spine without effort or awareness.

The princess.

That’s what they called you when they thought you weren’t listening - an unoriginal label laced with jealousy and petty bitterness.

But it fit you, nonetheless.

Elegant even when you were clumsy. Distant even in a crowd. Reserved in ways that spoke of intensive social training and endless expectations.

And you were screaming.

His hand wrapped around your doorknob in a matter of seconds, but you could not hear him calling out to you over the thunder and the ringing in your ears.

You did not hear the lock splinter when he slammed his body against the frame like his father taught him to do in case of a fire or an emergency.

Jungkook saw you often in and out of the dorms - yet you never really spoke to him, never offered him more than the occasional pleasantry or disinterested smile.

He was out of your orbit and you were out of his league.

But the princess was nowhere in sight now...

Now you were just a terrified girl curled up on her bed and Jungkook felt his heart wrench painfully at the sight of you so untethered.

You could not see him - even though he stood right in front of you. It wasn’t till his hands connected with your shoulders that you finally registered the presence of another human being and slowly brought your eyes up to meet his.

There was a moment of silence as your gazes melded together in a strange intimate haze unlike anything either of you had encountered before.

Then you reached out - curling your hand into the loose fabric of his shirt as you yanked him down on top of you.

“Please,” you whispered into the firm plane of his chest, “please hold me.”

Strong muscled arms wrapped around you.

And for the first time in so very long...

You felt safe.

He smelled like fresh laundry and a hint of vanilla.

But oh...

He felt like home.

Not the many houses you grew up in - but a home. The kind you only ever heard of.

“It’s ok,” he whispered, lips pressed intimately to the sweet softness of your hair, “I’ve got you.”

Thunder shook the room again and you burrowed impossibly closer to him, too frightened to notice that you wore only a t-shirt and nothing else, too terrified to care that the haven you sought was the beautiful man you passed by countless times in last few months, but could never quite work up the courage to speak to.

Now your body tangled desperately with his, drawing immeasurable comfort from his solid warmth and the soothing circles he traced over your back.

Jungkook was profoundly aware of both your state of undress and the soft curves of your body pressed insistently against his own, but that awareness paled in comparison to the fierce wave of protectiveness swelling up within him.

You were no damsel in distress. You were brilliant, beautiful, and president of the self-defense club. He’d seen you flip a linebacker over your shoulder like a pancake during a demonstration once (which had given him an immediate boner for reasons he deliberately never explored).

But right now - right here - in this moment - you needed him... and holding you close - keeping you safe was the only thing on his mind.

The tremors came and went sporadically as the storm raged on around you. His arms were an anchor each time the fear threatened to sweep you away.

It took a few minutes for your scattered senses to identify the new sound braiding hypnotically in between the rolls of thunder and the rhythmic cadence of your own breathing.

Jeon Jungkook was singing to you.

Another time it might have amused you to consider that a man whose face and form bordered on sinful possessed a voice that was utterly angelic. The notes he sang curled through the air, piercing effortlessly past the fog to wrap over your heart like a warm blanket.

“I see you getting sad... I see it running through your blood...”

Your muscles began to relax. The pounding in your chest began to slow.

“Let it run like water out of mud...”

Your breathing gradually evened out.

“Yell the sadness loud... Throw it up against the wall...”

Sensation crept back into your limbs. Awareness returned.

“See what stays then go and put it on... It keeps you warm…”

And suddenly you were in his arms - truly in his arms for the first time that night.

“I will love you anyway with all your demons in the way… Nothing can keep us apart...I walk through walls into your heart…”

His warmth was everywhere. The gentle comfort he brushed over your skin swirled around you till the sound of the storm faded away.

Till there was only him.

“I don’t mind… I don’t mind… I don’t ...mind…”

He felt the change in you, the incremental return from disconnected terror to tentative presence of mind, but you made no move to disentangle yourself, content to let his touch and his voice chase away the last trace of your nightmare.

You would stay in this moment - safe and surrounded and so unexpectedly content - forever if you could.

Jeon Jungkook had found you adrift and pulled you back from the edge. He’d done what no one else could..

What no one else (save your best friend) had even bothered to try.

And he’d done it selflessly.

As a corporate princess, you were worth millions in assets, but so often left begging for pittance when it came to genuine care.

You would have paid millions to be held like this just once.

The adrenaline raging through your body finally began to dissipate, and in its immediate wake, exhaustion crashed over you heavy and hard.

Sleep tugged insistently at the corners of your mind, but one last coherent urge burned so brightly that it could not be ignored or overtaken.

Your fingers twisted into the thick curls at the nape of his neck, drawing him down till you felt the soft press of his lips against your own.

You had never kissed like this; intimately - languidly - as if the brush of his mouth against yours was familiar across worlds and lifetimes. The small intake breath before he gave in to your gentle exploration was the loveliest sound you had ever heard.

He was the song that drew you - not like a siren to your doom - but like a lighthouse to the shore.

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blankdblank · 3 years

Text

It’s a Mother Flocking Puffin Pt 21

Barefoot in a heavily embellished fluffy layer crazy skirted gown, with a lace full length sleeved top, sheer save for the corseted bodice layered with embroidered flowers and vines all across it you stood in the center of what could only be a lake. Deeply you sighed lifting a surprisingly injury free hand to brush back the bangs blowing into your face on the breeze to the shift of toes on the lone rock you had landed on. This wasn’t the first time you had done this, as if your life couldn’t get more awkward in this tropical sort of paradise you kept zapping yourself off to when times got tough quite randomly somewhere you would find a new friend. Usually absurdly tall Elves or other massive animals who guided you on small adventures or train you to whatever craft they were practicing that you had stumbled across.

But the lake was new. The ocean you had dropped into but not this lake, in fact narrowing your eyes in another scan of the land around you those geode formed trees weren’t familiar either. Even the ground seemed to give off a golden sort of glimmering dust blowing around the shoreline looking far too course to be taken as sand. “Hmm,” the scent of mead and a feast was what forced you to turn fully around on that little island finding a cliff wall just covered in stone statues and runes you couldn’t place alongside weapons and the faces of beasts from one end to the other as best you could manage against its curve and break behind more of those geode formed trees.

Sharply you inhaled and said, “Fingers crossed there’s no pelicans this time.” Foot extending for ice to gather underneath for the start of the stepping stone bridge to the cliff wall.

Half a mile to shore the shadow of the wall fell over you for a stunning chill free path in this pleasantly warm mystery island you found. Even in the shadow the way ahead was clear thanks to the glimmering trails cast by fireflies floating off the tall grass your feet brushed through with flight paths in spirals around your gently glowing self. The heads of the figures carved into the cliffs grew white fluffy brows in the drop of the nearest clouds thanks to the growing breeze shifting directions that wanted away to where Manwe deemed them destined. The drift of musical notes lured your eyes downwards in a wonder to where it was coming from.

Off to your right however the sudden plop of a boulder into the lake had you lifting your skirts allowing the lick of water to spill over your bare feet then recede again to the roll of the new addition towards the shore. Hunched and dull in its split apart an elderly Dwarf began to straighten up on its feet again. The more it did backwards the clock turned with youth seeped into each crack and crevice until alive again the limber younger form of the Dwarf smiled to itself on its eager steps ahead following the same sent their bulbous curled mustache framed nose had caught a whiff of.

Three more stones fell under and rose up to the surface of the same mirror like lake while you hurried a couple steps around a waking badger in its den you were passing hoping not to scare it. Curiously at the sight of you it began to follow along right with the clicking Ravens and Crows above on tiny ledges in the wall hopping forward as you did to keep you in view. Between the legs of one of the figures what appeared to be a wall wasn’t and timidly you walked onward still following the Dwarf now smiling at discovering the hidden doorway that with a hand out you noticed was an illusion hidden archway using the wall behind a narrow entrance hall to complete said disguise. To the right it branches and wound a half turn back jaggedly to open into an endless mountain city. Layers upon layers of floors with fires and joyous Dwarves were to be seen.

“Ahem,” behind your back a burly Dwarf look you over at your prompt glance back.

“Sorry,” you replied with a quick step aside into the hall along the wall. The Khuzdul you spoke however had his eyes fixed on you through your quick flash of a grin. “Taking it all in.”

Stepping inwards he kept his eyes on you allowing the two behind him through to trot ahead in search of someone of something they clearly were expecting. “Hmm, could have sworn I knew you.” His head bowed and curtly he turned and strode past you with grin returning headed to who knows where.

Head tilted slightly again your eyes rose and fell admiring each carved pillar and statue coating the sections of floors with colored glass shifting shades in each of the brave steps you took forward. Once past the first landing down three broad steps you almost had to hop to reach the next in a somewhat graceful way without hiking your skirts all the way up thanks to your little legs the Dwarves behind you took with some irritating sense of ease even in their own heavily layered skirts. A soft breath left your lungs on the edge of a grand ballroom packed with those dancing, feasting and drinking encircled by those sharing grand tales and raucous jokes.

Didn’t take long however for eyes to shift your way in return and off in a distant corner a shoulder was tapped to nod one of the burliest to come and inspect the newcomer. One low hanging decoration turned you around to the wall to get a better look on its gradual spin around the tile you had stepped onto. With a gasp however when you turned back a familiar pair of blue eyes had fallen upon you.

“Durin, you’re, I know you’re him.”

Gruffly he replied in Khuzdul also stunned at you’re knowing his mother tongue. “You seem awfully certain of that.”

That had you giggle and step off of the tile to avoid the decoration passing between you smiling up at him, “No I know you I’ve seen your face on portraits and statues all through the Palace in Erebor and even one in the Iron Hills.”

Ever so slightly his eyes narrowed causing his dark brow to furrow in the process, “I do not know of this Erebor you speak, and these Hills,”

“Well, I’m not fairly certain the exact dates, but your clan moved from the Grey Mountains to a new Kingdom named Erebor, it’s near the Greater Greenwood.” He shook his head, “It’s just past the Misty Mountains kind of North to Rohan and Gondor, if you sort of curve,” you said with a curve of your hand after points on some imaginary map between you involuntarily making the corner of his mouth tick upwards. “Look, I’m not an expert on schematics of where you have dwelled, but your family rule over Erebor, Dale, a sub city of Erebor, and Moria as well as the Blue Mountains, and King Nain rules over the Iron Hills so I think that means he’s either one of your relatives or married into your clan. So I think that counts too.”

“You said Nain?” You nodded and he turned, “Gorpumbden!” (‘Gather my whiskers!’) “Fetch Rtain! The little Lass knows his grandson!”

Outwardly he was smiling now and asked in the rush of one group of Dwarves rushing off to fetch the Dwarf while his hand motioned to guide you onwards back to his own private table with his wives from his lifetimes and their children and all the generations of grandchildren milking about nearby with their own broods. “Tell me, who else do you know from my line, Little Lass?”

“Oh, well, I’ve met nearly everyone in Erebor, well you see, it’s sort of,” you sighed and he glanced over your confused pouting moment luring grins on the faces of others you passed through across the dance floor matching his timed steps to do so with ease between bounding couples. “Ok, I’ll start here, I met my One, Thorin II, son of Thrain and grandson to King Thror. I’m not certain how far down your line they are, and well we weren’t married at first. But then we met and I sort of bumped into him and I thought I’d have a heart song but I never heard one but it turned out these freckles on my back were a Mate Mark,” you said lifting your wrist to show off the bracelet spreading his smile admiring the craftsmanship. “And he’s been so kind to me, whole clan has really, I had some trouble with my adopted clan but then he helped with that too.”

You had reached the table and he faced you asking, “And just how far has young Thorin II reached in his courting of you, Little Miss?”

“Oh we had to elope, so technically we’re married but we’ve picked a cottage and are designing rings and I made him some love spoons.”

Adoringly his hand reached out to cradle your lifted hand inspecting your wedding band, “How precious. I do not know the pain he must suffer at your place here. Though as part of my clan you are amply welcome to wait for him amongst us.”

Rtain arrived beaming and eager to hear more about his son and grandson that you had met through the service only stirring up more confusion for how a clearly non-Dwarf had made it to the Halls of Mahal. A familiar passing Dam had your mouth drop and you said, “Celeste!” Draped in yards of velvet in fuchsia over her pastel pink gown she had been painted in, her hazel eyes scanned over your waving and smiling self, “Oh don’t you look lovely. That is a fitting color on you. Really compliments your mustache.”

Three confused steps later and she reached your table while the males behind you grinned at your bubbly self just blooming in this social circle of their clan and others you had known from portraits in passing. “Forgive me, but I do not seem to be able to place your name.”

“Oh, you don’t know me, Jaqiearae Pear,” you said extending your hand with the name making a Dam dancing stumble and straighten to look you over having recognized the name. She accepted the handshake and you added, “I married into your clan, I’m designing my ring after yours. Hope you don’t mind it is stunning.”

Widely she smiled and accepted a spot beside you to talk about the ring now a ghostly glimmering copy on her finger of the one back in the vault back at the Palace. After the discussion of band changes and her blessing was given she asked in an almost pained tone, “How did you find yourself here?”

“Well, that’s a bit of a winded answer, but, Melkor hated my clans and sent others by some oath after he was killed to attack them. My parents went into hiding but they found them anyways and killed them.” Beards bristled and fists clenched the more you shared, “And I was adopted by a Noldo in Numenor. Then I got accepted to University in Dale where I met Thorin’s nephews Fili and Kili my roommates. They took me along for a break to the Palace where I met the rest of your clan there and bonded with Thorin. Since then they’d helped me to find my birth family. Then this morning the followers of Melkor remaining brought a Fire Drake to the school. And last I remember Thorin just got back to the Palace and was eating while I spoke to Fili and Kili through tea, then I was in the lake. And I heard all of you.”

After a solemn moment from them you asked, “Your clan has faced coups for centuries, a lot of people got hurt and could have died when they were after me, how am I supposed to live with that weight?”

Hands were laid on you and several shared words of wisdom on their own experiences with acceptance of that same weight until Durin asked, “The Beast was brought down?”

You nodded, “I shot him with a wind lance,” rippling proud smiles your way.

“Mahal’s Beard! Very good!” More than one of the clan exclaimed.

“Didn’t take very long, though everyone was scared and Bagheera especially was upset.”

That had his beard puffing up and him smiling widely, “You saw my Bagheera?”

“Yes, he’s back at the Palace. Probably won’t be glad for me to miss a meal. Sometimes it takes days for me to get back from these islands.” Lips parted in confusion for what you meant, “Though this is a first time here and I wasn’t expecting all of you. Not that I don’t-,”

“There you are Little One,” beaming through the crowd that barely reached his hip Tulkas strolled through the dancers with hand outstretched for yours, “I presumed you would meet me by the wading pools, but Manwe’s companions took notice of your waking here.”

“Oh, I have to go,” you said laying your hand on the outstretched one from Tulkas and said to Durin and the others, “It was so amazing meeting you. Perhaps I can wander back here again sometime.” To Durin especially you said, “I’ll give Bagheera some fruit for you. I know he misses you terribly.”

Speechless they watched while Tulkas faded to mist and in a small snow flurry you were gone leaving the Dwarves more confused than ever. A state that had the First Born on his feet in a curious search for Mahal in his wife’s gardens to ask about the curious visitor.

Hand over his mouth Fili woke to Kili’s tug on his mustache and in a turn of his head he knew why he was woken. Across your skin faintly glimmering clan lines mapped out the stretch of your bloodline to the Eldar on your already glowing skin. And sweet and low Khuzdul eased from your lips in half hearted sighs echoing of your deep deep wandering dream none but you could shake yourself from. Taps on Thorin’s nose had his soft snores halting and eyes patting in time to hear your next murmur of, “Durin.” Wide eyed he sat up joining the boys, the younger of whom was already recording your side of the conversation that ebbed in and out only giving part of your side of it confusing them all the more why you were dreaming of talking to their clan father.

Through the door the Emperor peered having heard your voice and from there in his step into view he said, “I see My Yuula is speaking with her friend Meldamalta again.”

Thorin asked, “This is common? For her to speak in her sleep?”

At that the Emperor grinned to himself replying, “That is no ordinary sleep. My Yuula has taken Olórë Mallë, and her fea is within Valinor.”

Fili’s mouth dropped open, “Her soul-!!”

Kili clasped his hands over his brother’s mouth looking to you undisturbed still deep in sleep and the Emperor stated in his move closer, “She cannot hear you, when she was a child I realized as a Vanyar her path to Valinor is much easier than other Elven races might find it. The pathway is a mental one that through the link in her mind her fea may travel there at its whims. When she was younger she was often gone for days at a time, and always after times of troubling circumstances. The Valar will not allow harm to find her there it is quite safe.”

Thorin wet his lips and asked, “She is speaking to Durin though. Not any Meldamalta.”

The Emperor’s lips pursed, “Hmm, perhaps due to your marriage she is allowed there. Often she finds herself in different areas of the Valar’s control, Meldamalta will find her.”

Kili, “Who is Meldamalta?”

The Emperor answered quite matter of factly, “Tulkas.” Dropping their jaws, “Upon her first visit there My Yuula informed me she met a kind giant being with golden hair she couldn’t understand who allowed her to braid a crown of Marigolds into his hair and call him Meldamalta. He is quite fond of her, and his son enjoys their times in Nessa’s gardens.”

Fili, “You’re telling me Jaqi is friends with the Valar Tulkas?”

The Emperor answered, “He loves children and has watched her grow. They all have.”

Kili, “She would have told us! I would have told her if I knew Mahal!”

Thorin asked, “She only knows him by Meldamalta?”

“Correct,” was his answer.

Fili chortled, “You have to be joking! How could she not know! You know!”

The Emperor simply pointed and on the headboard where they hadn’t noticed Bagheera was seated puffed up with golden eyes glowing. “Each trip once she had woken once I had recognized the gardens and lands she had explored and faces of those guiding her and teaching her skills in each try to share where she had been he would stop me. She is not ready to know yet it would seem. Though in my teaching her Valinorian he has calmed to my learning of her travels at least and the times have lessened in her being able to converse with them. They grant her council where my expertise is limited.”

Kili, “Why don’t you go with her?”

“Noldo are forbidden re-entrance to Valinor since the departure from those shores without Valar permission. I grew up in those lands and as a child my parents brought me here. Though I have never witnessed the Halls of Mahal myself, in fact I cannot name an Elf ever noted to have traveled there. It must be due to your union.”

“Celeste,” the name turned their heads and Thorin smiled guessing as the others had why you would speak to her, namely the ring you would share stirring up questions if you would mention them as well to their ancestors.

Fili mused, “Great Gran will be so pleased she went to the Halls of Mahal to wedding plan.”

The Emperor said, “You can rest she will share her adventures upon her return.”

Kili, “So she just knows she has long dreams?”

“No, it is very much a physical journey for her. Several times she has stated she simply wakes up in odd locations in beautiful gowns.”

“Meldamalta,” you sighed out and they blinked curious to know should they arrive in those hallowed halls which Valar they might come to know themselves.

The Emperor chuckled and stated, “You should get some more rest been a long day and she won’t be screaming.” He said to the steady sighed Valinorean wafting out of you like a sweet hummed lullaby that took the trouble out of their drift back to sleep, right away they felt the physical urge to lay back down cuddled around you eased off to their own dreams again. Leaving just the Emperor eyeing Bagheera who he asked softly, “She is growing stronger?”

The owl fluffed up and let out a low chirp in an affirmative response as he usually did for the adoptive father’s question he had repeated through the years in wait while the Valar bolstered your hope and strength. And while he was mostly correct in his assumptions the owl was not keeping him from telling you the name of the beings you had been conversing with but trying to tell him that you already knew deep down just not believing it to be really true. Fear was what he was protecting you from, any fear or possible shame taken in any slight imagined and that path could be lost to you forever without the knowledge of how you were actually sending yourself there.

Though an adult on technicality you were very much a child and far from knowledgeable on deeper things you had not been taught by the elders of your clans as you should have had Melkor not struck his deadly blow. A child with strength you didn’t understand to master without their help all these years with just among the remaining lessons to share how you were waking in those sacred lands. They did miss you when you were away, but the time in between showed such heart warming strength brewing inside you, this time all the more in having arrived in, for all your other kin, an impossible place. But Tulkas had you now and he was assured the master dueler of the Valar would enjoy the story and send you on your way home back to him again. Hoping to himself that even in his exile they might not think too harshly of him now that he’d grown from the boy they once knew.

Smiling widely in the gardens with your friends you sat talking while seated on a blanket for the picnic readied for you while the smiling Valar listened to the whole detailed story on the Drake luring the Elves serving under the cuddling couple across from you to come and listen. Loudly Tulkas laughed with pride for his youngest pupil while Nessa beamed at the clear passing of her swiftness lessons beyond just words that you had picked up in training on your own. His bravery and feats of strength and her agility and speed having aided in your success amongst lessons with Ulmo for the obvious control of water. The others far less obvious in their lessons, granting aid more in tasks and mini adventures during your stays in Valinor, rather hoped to present a chance to find those traits within yourself.

Although a few of their pupils, including one from Aule had aided greatly in the growth of your wood working craftiness, Celebrimbor in a new form had found himself in your path and in those bright eyes of yours found a kindred soul he wished to help and took to teaching you the basics. Among those pupils was Ecthelion of the Fountains, here again relaxed listening to your tale smiling with the others flute beside him in its carrying pouch that he had used to help teach you on the instrument between two more of your music instructors self assigned to ensure some time with spectacular you. No shortage of pupils had prided themselves on passing on what they had learned and a bit more on discoveries of their own to maybe aid you one day.

Off beyond a row of hedges through a disguising stream of water off a fountain a couple stood staring longingly at their child back here again, Jewels cuddled against her husband Lindo’s chest, both smiling faintly that their baby girl was growing so much stronger by the day. Even more so having brought them justice by searching out their attackers, whom Mandos was now taking personal attention to doling out Manwe’s orders for their atonement.

Both parents formerly in their unrest unable to travel here themselves since the date Mahal aided in their resting memorial in Erebor, now had a sort of physical form here in these lands to aid in their coming to terms with their own grief for all they, their clans and you had lost. They adored being close to you for so long however without a proper resting memorial from you they could not have visited you here until now, and even still they were fearful of approaching not to keep their precious girl from returning to her new life, the one you had fought so hard to build and defend.

Behind them however Este crept closer and hushedly began to speak with the pair sharing what they had missed through your trips here. “You will be strong enough to meet again one day, the three of you, you will,” she spoke softly warming their hearts as they nestled closer watching a bright smile split across your face laughing along with Tulkas and Nessa to a joke from their son.

Hours you had lingered and the same telling creep of bluebell vines towards your hand set aside gave you the same gut clench feeling that it was time to go. The look always was evident on your face and smiling still the crowd bid you safe travels. Up you stood with another ring of marigolds in hand you eased onto the glowing golden ringlets Tulkas had tied back from his face with ribbons from his beloved wife. In releasing the crown your fingers curled back in a slow recoil of your hovering hands recalling the first crown you had given him and the meeting of all the larger beings here you had once been unable to understand at all. His eyes lingered on your face with smile still in place through his thanks knowing things were clicking into place on who he was.

And softly you asked, “Are you really Tulkas?” Deeper his smile set in sinking more into his eyes at the bubbling courage in your gaze in asking, “Can I still call you Meldamalta?”

Tenderly his hands rose to cradle yours, “I have been and always will cherish being your Meldamalta.”

On his side Nessa eyed the still creeping bluebells reaching for your legs in your spring forward to loop your arms around his neck, eyes clenched in a tight embrace stirring a deep chuckle to his arms laying across your back, “Thank you for finding me.”

“Ooh now, Little One, you were the one to find me.” His words accented with a brush of fingers against your cheek in your step back brushing away the invisible trail of the tear threatening to fall from the corner of your eye holding it in place somehow.

Nessa smiled adding in her own taking of your hand, “The most welcome snow flurry in our lands, most precious Little One. Your bluebells are calling you to wake.”

Looking down you asked, “How do I keep arriving here?”

She smiled saying, “We have yet to travel that road, only Irmo would know.”

And up you looked finding Manwe approaching to the winding of a vine of bluebells around the layers of skirts folding in around your legs the more they climbed, “Fly safe, brave little Nique-Puifíní. And pray do inform Winge we have greatly missed his company here, his parents might have chosen to sail from these shores, an innocent to their oath, and welcome to return upon finding that doorway of dreams.” Like sinking into a well his voice began to muffle and echo in your ears to the clench of your eyes while from the feet up back into your flurry you shifted. Vana smiled in her stroll through the garden again in another try to find how you were entering these lands exactly to solve the sort of game Irmo had made in keeping the secret of how you arrived here each time.

To the opening of the door by a Butler entering to feed your fire at your side against Thorin’s side from your straight upwards position into him you leaned resting your head against his forehead. The sharp pain in your ribs stopped your wiggle into his side and when your ribs throbbed again a crack of your eyelid not being touched by a strip of his brushed up hair and softly you grumbled which drew a stirring breath from Thorin releasing his own grumble. Off behind his back however the Emperor whispered in a reach over him with dropper in hand containing medicine to help with the pain you were facing, “To ease your pain.” Groggily you parted your lips and with three drops on your tongue he drew back the dropper to add back to its bottle with a kind grin.

After wetting your lips you said, “I know Meldamalta’s real name now, remembered it.” Easing out his smile, “I was asked, Manwe says they miss you,” parting his lips, “Said you are always welcome back when you find the doorway, your parents swore the oath not you.”

Tearily he smiled again, “Thank you for telling me that. How are you feeling?”

“My head itches,”

“Bunnanunê,” Thorin rumbled through a deep inhale beginning to shift to prop himself up pressing a gentle kiss to your mildly bruised cheek between the scrapes there. “You are awake.”

“Just the one night?” You asked and he smiled.

“Just the one, are you in pain?”

“Not so much pain that I have to wash my hair.” Thorin nodded and with the stirring of the boys the bench brought earlier was moved to the side of the tub in a painful shrug he removed the sling hindering his ability to tend to you fully and scooped you up gingerly carrying you to the bath to lay you down on the bench. With care Fili held your neck while Kili turned on the water as Thorin undid your braid to the Emperor easing the bowl of healing oils and creams over with sleeves rolled up and comb in hand to begin recoating those cuts and scrapes aiding in some of the discomfort right away.

From the bottom to top the water was run stopping two inches from your scalp with Thorin tenderly lathering your shampoo lovingly into each curl watching the bloody grimy suds flowing down soon washed away revealing those awe striking curls. Without so much as a tug he wrung out the water he could and with Fili holding the blow dryer, certain to keep aimed away from your scalp that Kili held a hand towel against to act as buffer for the spare heat while the Emperor held you upright. Once dry your courting braid was added again with ribbon and bell intact to match the gentle tug free braid Thorin settled into your hair to keep it in place.

“Thank you,” you whispered in Thorin’s move to settle into your view again smiling at your relieved grin.

Kili however blurted out, “Weird dreams? You talk in your sleep.”

Fili smiled bursting with questions of his own to your weak chuckle, Thorin however scooped you in his arms again saying, “Back to bed, you can share there cozy in bed.”

Around you the group nestled you back in your former place with towel removed from over your pillow stained by your hair added to your empty hamper while covers settled around your waist and Sir Akdâmuthrab clambered over post stretch to plop down on your lap to sleep there instead of far below your feet. By now Dis, Vili, Dwalin and Balin had come to check on you and settled onto the end of your bed having come to check on you to send for your first meal of the day before the Doctors would arrive.

“So, I met Durin,” you started and in the growing group of their kin while the triplets continued to nap against your legs having been set down by their parents having scooted closer to grant more room for others to hear everything.

Kili, “How’d you get there?”

“I, don’t know. I never land in the same place when I go there, but this was the first time I woke up there. I think they thought I was dead. Must have,”

Vili asked, “Have you met Mahal?”

“I don’t know, I know Meldamalta is Tulkas, Manwe is obvious shroud in feathers, the others I am not certain. I might have, there are a few who look similar to etchings I’ve seen on display here, then there are others who are more, not feelings, that’s not the word…”

Dis said, “Un-bodied ones?”

That you nodded to, “Even Meldamalta’s son at times chooses to present out of his body. Mahal’s Halls none of your kin were like that, I think it was just the Elven lands. Even Celebrimbor held our lessons out of himself before as well. He might have been there, sorry to disappoint.”

Thorin’s hand laid on yours, “Oh no, no disappointment at all. Only few of our kin have returned from those halls, each tale is treasured.”

Gloin asked, “Would you mind us calling uncle Nain? Letting him know about his grandfather meeting you?”

“No, is he in the clan by blood or marriage, I didn’t know.”

Thorin smiled again as Frerin answered, “His Amad is of our line, but Firebeards and Longbeards have always been close.”

Your eyes drifted to Dis, “Celeste seemed happy hearing I chose her ring. And the keeper of yours told me to tell you,” for a moment your brows furrowed in repeating the mouthful of words slowly, “Mire the Spring?”

Dis smiled to Vili who explained, “A joke on how my Spring proposal was as troubled as hers had been.”

She patted her hand on your legs, “A good sign, thank you for the message.”

Through them a tray was brought in to rest on top of your lap for the meal the rest of the clan shared their plans for the day to help settle things of their own charge throughout the kingdom to aid in the recovery of the populace from this stunning attack while those in other kingdoms were doing the same. Doctors did follow after and with a sigh you settled into bed as Thorin was off to his own rooms for a private second inspection of his own wounds and warm bath to freshen up before his few tasks of the morning between him and his evening in with you.

Pt 22

All –

@himoverflowers, @theincaprincess, @aspiringtranslator, @thegreyberet, @patanghill17, @jesgisborne, @curvestrology, @alishlieb, @jogregor, @armitageadoration, @fizzyxcustard, @lilith15000, @marvels-ghost, @catthefearless, @imjusthereforthereads, @c-s-stars, @otakumultimuse-hiddlewhore, @mariannetora, @shes-a-killer-kween, @ggbbhehe4455, @xxbyimm

Hobbit/LotR – @abiwim, @jotink78, @pastelhexmaniac

x Thorin – @evyiione, @deepestfirefun, @queenoferebor

X all Rich. A - @abiwim, @deepestfirefun, @thestorybookmistress

#Path Of Dreams #Ollore Malle #Valar #Durin the Deathless #Celeste #Dain's Family #Lost Loves #Afterlife #Halls of Mahal #Gardens of Tulkas #Meldamalta #Back Again #Pass on Messages #Tend to the Hair #Back to Bed #Thorin x Reader OC #Vili x Dis

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yoonjinkooked · 4 years

Text

CHEMISTRY | Closer

PART 1 - CLOSER

DRABBLE SERIES, TONS OF SHORT LITTLE CHAPTERS. WILL BE UPDATED OFTEN CAUSE HOSEOK IS THE #1 SOURCE OF MY PAIN

Pairing: Hoseok / Reader

Rating: 18+

Genre: FWB, university AU

Warnings: cursing, lots of alcohol and some weed, future smut, incredibly hot Hoseok

Word Count: 1.5K

Summary: After a few years of being immune to Jung Hoseok’s charms, you suddenly fall into them, head first. All it takes is one night, too much alcohol and a lot of balls.

The one, and arguably only, downside of having Kim Seokjin as a best friend is the fact that at certain times, he is most definitely a horrible influence. Tonight serves as a perfect example. Fresh off a breakup with a dick of an ex, you were more than ready for your first night out after a week of stuffing your face with ice-cream and crying to shitty romantic movies. You dress was short, you were feeling elated and free and Kim Seokjin made sure that your cup was never empty.

Not once did you actually manage to finish a drink before he would be filling your cup again. You didn’t complain, simply because you know your limits well and you were at least two cups away from being completely wasted. Right now, you are just… a little bit too giggly, too clingy and too loud.

“Have I ever told you how much I appreciate our friendship?” your words are yelled in Jin’s ear and despite being fairly drunk, you’re sober enough to recognize that he’s not as half as drunk as you are.

“You are completely out of it, aren’t you?” he laughs in your ear, making you flinch.

“I’m not, you meanie!” you yell, not completely sure why. Jin’s words made you sulk and the look on your face made him laugh. It’s just the way things have always been with you – an endless cycle of mocking one another lovingly. You may hate him half the time, but you wouldn’t hesitate to kick someone’s ass if they dare to hurt him.

“Okay, you need water,” he laughs in your face, completely ignoring the fact that he is one of the main factors why you’re as drunk as you are. “Don’t move. Do you hear me?” he asks and after blinking rather violently a couple of times, you notice his serious expression. Simply nodding, you sink further down the couch, watching him as he walks towards the kitchen, before looking around to take in your surroundings. As much as you can, given the fact that the room is spinning, if only just a little.

The house you’re currently in is a proper example of how cool it can be to have rich friends. Seokjin’s parents didn’t think twice before renting it and even though at the start he was living here alone, it seemed as if each semester a new friend was upgraded to roommate status. The last time you’ve checked, Jungkook, Namjoon and Taehyung lived here along with your bestie, while he uses their rent money to provide booze for nights like these – a nights that happen for no particular reason, other than ‘he wants to party’.

Some faces you recognize, some you don’t, some you can’t even see well, no matter how hard you blink. You do, however, hear a collective groan and an overly defensive Jungkook. And as wasted as you are, you know the exact reason – as soon as “Closer” started playing, thanks to DJ JK, everyone in the room, drunk or not, voiced their disdain – it sounded as if everyone’s gag reflex was activated.

“IT’S A GOOD SONG!” you hear your friend yell in his defense, smiling at the whole ordeal. Eh, it’s decent, but it’s absolutely overplayed. Not that it mattered – the people who were dancing before were dancing still, those who were busy making out with someone went back to their PDA and those, who like you, were laying down and contemplating the meaning of life, simply stayed motionless.

You smile at the sight of Jimin dancing overly seductively with a freshman who looks like she’s about to explode – she is red in the face and is desperately trying to keep up with the biggest slut with the kindest heart of your friend group. Ah, Park Jimin… he could make a lamppost horny.

Not too far from him, Hoseok is dancing and for the first time since you’ve met the guy, you do a double take at the sight of him.

He’s stoned, you know that much – he offered you some a couple of minutes ago. Or was it hours? You’re no longer sure, but you do remember him and the bright smile on his face when he invited you to join him and Yoongi in the backyard. You declined, of course. As much as you are willing to fall under Seokjin’s bad influence and drink yourself to an early grave, you know better than to mix weed and alcohol.

Hoseok is still smiling brightly, to no one in particular, as he spins around on the improvised dance floor in the middle of the room, showing the skills he’s gained in all those years of having dancing as a hobby. He’s completely unaware of the rest of the world, and that includes you and your open mouth.

Because holy fuck, he’s hot. You’re not blind, you knew it before – for some reason unknown to human kind, every single individual in your friend group is ridiculously attractive. And on most days, that made you feel like an ignorable piece of furniture, right now it’s making you drool.

Ridiculously colored sneakers, ripped jeans, white shirt and a light green and white flannel shirt – paired with that ridiculous smile of his and the newly dyed, lighter hair… Yeah, Jung Hoseok is looking like an absolute snack and you’re not sure what to do with that information.

Too drunk to know better, too drunk to even think of the possible consequences of your actions, but sober enough to know damn well what you’re doing, you get up, holding onto the edge of the couch to stop the room from spinning.

Narrowly avoiding Jimin and his prey for the night, you walk directly to Hoseok, who is still dancing in his own little world. It takes him a few seconds to notice you just standing there, staring at him, but when he does, his smile becomes even wider, if that is even humanly possible.

“Y/N!” he laughs, beaming at you. “Do you wanna dance?”

“Um… I actually… I think I want to kiss you.”

You have no idea if this is a spur of the moment or a sudden realization – while you’re sober enough to know WHAT you’re doing, you’re way too drunk to know WHY you’re doing it. And apparently, neither is Hoseok, because he’s looking at you wide-eyed, too surprise to remember to shine his signature smile.

“Eh?” he asks, blinking rapidly – so quickly, you blink too.

“Can I kiss you?” you ask, not waiting for an answer before you grab a hold of that white shirt of his and push him closer to you. You do not kiss him – consent is key. As much as you want to, you will not kiss him until he gives you explicit permission, simply because you’d expect the same from him. However, with him just an inch or two away from you, you have a perfect view of his face and you can only wonder if he was always this beautiful or if you were too blind to notice.

“You have a beautiful nose,” you mumble, amazed at how straight his nose actually is.

“Y/N,” he chuckles out your name, pausing to lick his lips. “I would… honestly, I’d be happy to kiss you, but you’re drunk and I don’t know if you’d want to do this if you were sober.”

“Not drunk enough to not know what I want,” you shrug. “If it makes you feel any better, we don’t have to fuck. Just… a decent make out.”

“Jesus Christ,” he laughs, looking down nervously. He is biting his lip and if you didn’t know him any better, you’d think he’s teasing you. He’s not though, not really – he’s wondering if kissing you is the smart thing to do, given that you are… well, drunk. Sure, maybe not blackout drunk to the point of not remembering a single thing, but definitely drunk enough for him to know that it’s a risk. “Y/N…”

“Hoseok, we’ve been friends for almost three years,” you roll your eyes. “You know me, you know what I’m like when I’m drunk. I know what I’m doing. I know what I want to do and right now, if I’m being honest, I really want to kiss you and maybe sit on your dick, if you let me. So just… if you wanna kiss, let’s kiss. Or let me run away and hide from you for the next three weeks. And for your information, kissing you and sitting on your dick would sound inviting even if I didn’t have alcohol in my system.”

Despite your little monologue, you were pretty sure that he was going to turn down your offer. He stays silent for one second too long and you take it as a sign to leave. You barely have a chance to sigh before he grabs you by the hips and brings you closer to him – body to body, no space left behind.

You barely have a chance to realize what’s happening before he’s kissing you.

And that is how you and Jung Hoseok hooked up for the first time, in the middle of a crowded house party, to the sound of that god-awful Chainsmoker’s song.

#jhope drabble #jhope smut #jhope scenarios #bts au #jhope au #hoseok smut #hoseok fwb #hobi smut #hobi fwb #hoseok drabble #hoseok fanfiction #hobi fanfic #hobi fanfiction #jhope fanfiction #jhope fanfic #hoseok x reader #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #bts drabbles

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therainbowwillow · 3 years

Text

When Hell Freezes Over AU: part 5!

The train squeals to a halt. When she steps onto the platform, Eurydice recognizes her surroundings. Her home, before she’d been taken to Hadestown, had been this town, alongside the railroad track. The bar, she remembers, where she'd met Orpheus. She has his scrap of newspaper tucked deep into her pockets, unwilling to go without it.

Hermes hands her a blanket. He’d taught her the song and with each note, she’d felt her memories return. She finds herself wondering now how her Orpheus, the sweet love of her life who wouldn’t hurt a fly, who hadn’t even fought back when the workers in Hadestown had attacked him, could cause such suffering.

The cold is harsh, stinging against her cheeks. Winter on the surface is crueler than the strange chill down below. The wind tugs at her blankets, threatening to rip them away. Orpheus’s voice can be heard on the gales, wailing through the trees. She looks to Hermes for instruction.

“I would give you shelter, Eurydice,” he says, “But I’m afraid there’s nowhere to find it.”

She shrugs, pretending not to mind. “We should find him. I don’t need a roof over my head if he isn’t beside me.”

Hermes nods. “It’s a long walk,” he warns her. “And...” his voice trails off.

“The sooner we leave, the sooner we’ll find him.” Eurydice begins to walk, a steady pace. Wrapped in blankets, the path is harder to traverse, but she’s grateful for the warmth.

“Wait.” She turns. “Eurydice, it’s not him you’re going to find. Not really.”

She tilts her head slightly. “What?”

“It’s a graveyard out there,” he warns.

It dawns on her then. Those who found him before her had never left. “How long? How long before he freezes me too?” she asks, bluntly. He doesn’t meet her eyes, nor does he provide an answer. “Fine. Let’s go then,” she says. “If he kills me too, I suppose nothing changes.” Hermes nearly winces at this statement, but takes the lead regardless. Persephone follows behind him, Eurydice at her side.

“He loves you,” Persephone reminds her again. “Very much.”

She nods, forcing back her irritation. “I love him too,” she says. What does it matter, she wonders, if he’ll torture her all the same? What awaits her is a crueler fate than either of her last deaths. Failure or success, is one any easier than the other? “What happens?” she asks, “If I succeed, I mean.”

“I don’t know,” Hermes admits.

She can’t tell if this is the truth. She presses the question. “He’ll die, won’t he? A mortal in this weather, no shelter, no food.”

“I’ve struck a deal with Hades,” he explains. “He’ll sing all the same so you must not be separated from him.”

For a second, she’s almost relieved. Hopeful, until she realizes what this agreement doesn’t specify. “Together in life or in the factories?”

Hermes sighs. “That’s up to you.”

“How long do I have?”

“I wish I could say I knew.”

The rest of the walk is near-silent, save for the sorrowful howling of the wind. With every step, Eurydice finds the cold grows harsher. Once, she would’ve turned and fled. Now, it is almost a comfort. The lower the temperature drops, the closer she knows she is to finding him.

...

Hermes doesn’t share Eurydice’s acquaintance with the cold. He ties a scarf up over his face, warding off the snow as best he can. He wonders what Eurydice will think to say, think to do, that he hadn’t tried. He can’t bring himself to warn her of what lies ahead. People, too many to count, frozen like statues. Already, he’d noticed them among the trees. Staring, blank and blind.

Eurydice and Persephone have not yet observed them as he has. They remain blissfully unaware. He knows it is pointless, maybe even counterproductive, not to admonish them of what lies on the path before them. Still, he can’t bear to speak up. Maybe it will ease Eurydice’s path to go in unknowing. Clueless as to what she will face, just as he had been.

The cold had been a force of its own, Hermes remembers. His fingertips had stung first, until the ever-decreasing temperature had chilled them to numbness. His eyes had burned, pelted by snow. His breaths had slowed. The effort required to inhale at all was great, even for a god such as himself. The cold had seemed to work its way into his lungs, strangling him from the inside.

If Eurydice marches to her demise, how much might she suffer before death gives her mercy? Her shaky gasp pulls him from his thoughts. Eurydice stands, frozen in terror, her hands over her mouth, before one of Orpheus’s victims. A young woman, no older than Eurydice herself. Hermes hadn’t even noticed the girl. “H-he did this?” she stammers.

“His song,” Hermes tells her, carefully.

“How many?” He sees the horror written across Eurydice’s face.

“There will be more. Eurydice...”

“I’ll end up just like them, won’t I?” Her voice trembles. “I’ve only ever failed him. Again and again and again.”

“You haven’t,” he says, firmly. “You haven’t failed him.”

...

The rest of their journey is silent and surprisingly swift with a known route to follow. As she passes, Eurydice whispers words of what she hopes is comfort to the unmoving forms of those who had failed the very task she will now attempt.

Perseus, she remembers. Orpheus had sang of his tale once as they’d sat beside a dwindling fire, not long before she’d accepted her ticket to the underground. Perhaps she’d seen him once, the great slayer of gorgons, among the shades of Hadestown. Heroes were meant to go to Elysium, but such a paradise seemed only a distant rumor after her time in the underworld.

She can’t help but hear his story echoing through her mind. His task was much the same as her own: bring an end to the suffering caused by another. And Medusa’s victims had met such similar fates. She knows Persephone will not admit it, nor will Hermes so much as entertain the idea, but her job is to make him stop by whatever means necessary. Stop him, or they both belong to Hades, the King of the Dead had said.

Hades himself had given her these clothes, extra winter coats and thick blankets. Immediately, she had assumed that he’d only shown kindness to manipulate her, not out of affection. She’d been proven right. Deep within her pockets, she’d discovered a thin blade, sheathed and sharpened. In disgust, she’d nearly thrown it from the train window, but the longer she walks, the more glad she is to hold it.

Had Perseus felt remorse when he’d cut through Medusa’s neck? Eurydice doubts it. The gorgon had been a killer, murdered so many before she had met Perseus’s retaliation. Plus, he had never known her for anything but cruelty.

But Eurydice had known Orpheus for everything but wickedness. He was kind, true, ever-protective, even willing to risk himself to keep her safe. The workers had attacked him and she’d seen how he’d winced with every step as they’d walked. All of that, to defend her.

It was hard to believe that her Orpheus had become this monster, killing anyone who dared to approach him. Every note of his song sends a ripple of cold through her body. He had come so far from the man she’d loved. She wonders if she’ll be able to reach him at all. Some tiny part of her asks if it’s worth trying. Perhaps she’d find it easier to simply slay her Medusa, feel no regret.

When they arrive in the clearing, she can hardly believe she had ever thought to hurt him. He’s slumped awkwardly against a tree, difficult to make out beyond the blizzard between them. His thin nightgown is stiff with frost and stained with dried blood, certainly his own. He shivers against the cold he creates and seems to be fighting their approach. When she steps forward, the wind blows harder, he sings louder, which only seems to further strain him.

She looks to Hermes. “Keep yourself warm. Fight it, Eurydice,” he says, as if she doesn’t already know.

She steps forwards, entering the circle of icy figures that surrounds him, frozen in shock. Many of them hold gifts. Golden chalices or strings of precious jewelry. Offerings. A last ditch attempt to save themselves. Their towns, their homes.

Deep in her pockets, her hand closes around the scrap of paper he’d given her. Their first meeting feels a million years away. Again, she moves towards him, turning her head down against the wind. She doesn’t waste her breath calling out to him, he can’t hear her. Here, she’s surrounded by his attackers, men and women armed with a variety of weapons. Their arrows are frozen pillars of ice, stopped mid-flight by Orpheus’s song.

Holding her coat in front of her face, she watches him, shivering. He looks gaunt and miserable, tears freeze on his cheeks before they reach the ground. “Leave me alone,” he shrieks.

For a second, he looks up. “Orpheus!” she shouts. Her cries fall on deaf ears. There’s no recognition in his cloudy eyes, only pain, only fear.

She stumbles closer. “Orpheus, listen to me!” she pleads, to no avail. The winds rip at her blankets. Her fingers and toes are numb in the cold. Her eyes sting and she forces herself to keep them open, focused on him.

She sings the notes to his old melody, as loudly as she can manage, her voice shaking a little as she shivers. He strums his guitar, blood dripping from his fingers, frostbitten and torn by his ceaseless notes. The storms seems to burst from his voice, pulling away her blankets. Eurydice tightens her grip on her coat.

Orpheus makes a noise of pain, a little choking sob, as if it hurts him to continue fueling his blizzard. He sings on. Eurydice feels the knife in her pocket. She’d never forgive herself if she were to hurt him. Through all of his icy winds and endless music, he is only her lover, frightened and defenseless and lonely. The wind itself pulls the blade out of her hands when she releases her grip, bringing her coat with it. She’s left shivering in only a thin shirt.

He’s so close, just a few steps away. Eurydice continues to sing, the wind blowing harder and harder with every note she chokes out. The air itself seems to pierce her lungs. She clutches her chest and treks onward. The blinding white of the snow begins to blur her vision until Orpheus is indistinguishable from the rest of the landscape. Her legs shake, threatening to buckle under her weight.

“Orpheus...” she coughs out each syllable, struggling for breath. His song changes its tone. It isn’t melancholic any longer, but angry. Hateful. Eurydice shields her face against the pelting ice crystals, whipped against her by the ever-stronger gales. Darkness blurs the corners of her vision. She drops to her knees, gasping for breath. Her chest feels like it’s closing in on her, choking her.

Eurydice pulls out her slip of newspaper, clutching it in her hands. Her life seems to slip away before her eyes, blurrier and darker as if she’s sinking into a deeper and deeper sea. She feels the bitter cold. Loss, as her scrap of paper is whisked out of her fingertips. The exhaustion hits her last. She longs to close her eyes. To disappear.

Instead, she sings. Her voice is tiny and weak and her shallow breaths hardly draw enough oxygen to sustain her. She pushes herself forward, on her hands and knees. He’s so close. She reaches out. Her fingertips brush his nightgown and suddenly, the world shifts around her. She’s back on the road out of Hadestown, holding on to him for dear life. “Eurydice,” he breathes, finally meeting her eyes.

She feels the pull of the underworld, trying to drag her under. She holds him tighter. “No. I’m not going!” she screams, as if Hadestown itself can hear her. Orpheus inhales, a tiny gasp, and his eyes slip shut.

...

Eurydice wakes, Orpheus in her arms. She breathes deeply, the air already beginning to warm. She hugs him, feeling her lover’s slow heartbeat against her chest. He groans.

“Orpheus?” she chokes out, her voice hoarse.

He glances around him and she covers his eyes. But he sees. He remembers. His breaths quicken, his eyes well with tears. “I... I killed them,” he stutters.

She wipes the tears off his cheeks. His skin is so cold she draws her hands away. “Not you, lover,” she whispers, “You didn’t do this.”

“Y-yes I did.” He tries to push her away, but his limbs feel heavy as lead. “I killed... how many?”

“Shhh...” She holds him closer.

“I deserve it,” he sobs, “Whatever punishment... the furies have for me. I deserve it.”

“No, you don’t, love,” she comforts him, swaying back and forth. “You didn’t mean to hurt anybody. You were only afraid. Hush... hush...” He falls silent, save for his shaky breaths.

Hermes and Persephone arrive at Orpheus’s side a moment later. The Queen of the Underworld drapes a blanket over Eurydice’s shoulders. “You did well,” she whispers.

Hermes bundles Orpheus in his own jacket. “I’m... sorry,” Orpheus stammers.

“You don’t need to apologize.”

“I... I should’ve told you. I stole your food without telling you and... and I ran away. Hermes, I’m so sorry. I-”

“No, you don’t need to be sorry,” Hermes assures him. “I never should have left you alone. Orpheus, I don’t blame you for any of this. It’s not your fault, it’s not anyone’s fault.” Orpheus nods, too tired to reply.

Hermes again notices the blood staining Orpheus’s clothing. He finds the poet’s previously injured leg has worsened in the cold. The gash where he’d been cut in the underworld is sticky with new blood. An array of scratches, some quite deep, run up his arms and torso, no doubt courtesy of his attackers on the surface.

But it’s the cold that Hermes fears most of all. Orpheus’s skin is so icy, Hermes is surprised he’s still conscious. His lips and his fingers are blue with frostbite. Hermes knows that he won’t last long in this weather. Even without his lament prolonging the cold weather, the air is still freezing and the ground is still blanketed in snow.

“Hadestown,” he realizes aloud. “Warmth.”

“But Eurydice...” Orpheus mutters, hardly intelligible.

“No, Hermes is right,” Persephone says. “No amount of surface fires will provide what Hadestown naturally has. The sooner we leave the better.”

“I can move faster alone,” Hermes tells her.

“Eurydice and I will be close behind,” she promises. “Tell my husband that he can enjoy the Styx if he dares to lay a finger on the boy.”

#when hell freezes over au #hadestown au #hadestown #therainbowwrites

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dreamsofalife · 13 days

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Here it is, karaoke night again at the Seven of Cups. The same college kids are there, however several of the older ladies are notably absent. Shy's onstage, but this time the song she's chosen isn't as flashy; it doesn't need to be. She's chosen something decidedly more soulful and somber.

"You and me have seen everything to see; from Bangkok to Calgary, and the soles of your shoes are all worn down. The time for sleep is now, but it's nothing to cry about, 'cause we'll hold each other soon, in the blackest of rooms..."

"And if Heaven and Hell decide, that they both are satisfied, and illuminate the "no"s on their vacancy signs...If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks, then I'll follow you into the dark..."

"Then I'll follow you into the dark..."

#a song of endless wonder (ic status)#song: i will follow you into the dark by death cab for cutie

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dreamsofalifeold · 1 month

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"IT'S WORLD THEATER DAY, FUCKERS! TIME TO GET YOUR BROADWAY ON!"

#a song of endless wonder (ic status)#caps tw

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years

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Outside: Chris With Sir

CW: Oliver Branch is a creepy motherfucker, referenced drugging, underage drinking (not to drunkenness, just a couple sips), referenced torture/conditioning, very vague reference to noncon/dubcon, internalized ableism, did I mention Oliver Branch is a creepy motherfucker

Tagging Chris’s crew: @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @endless-whump , @whumpfigure , @stxckfxck , @slaintetowhump, @astrobly, @newandfiguringitout

The air is clear, with no sound of cars and no lights on inside the grand mansion. The only sounds are the usual night-sound noises whispering breezes through trees and a dog barking, somewhere far away.

When the boy looks up, the sky is full of stars, and he cannot stop smiling.

He should feel bad about the earthquake and the people hurt by the mudslide that happened after it, but he doesn’t - because with the power out and the governor’s mansion closed to the public and everyone but Sir and Miss Nancy and Mr. Nielsen, Sir’s security person, gone, he is outside with permission for the very first time.

He had to win a game, first - one of Sir’s games that always seem rigged for him to lose, but Sir let him win this one and now Baldur keeps his eyes on the sky, feels the thick plaid wool of the blanket at his back, nylon-backed so the dew already collecting on the grass won’t soak through it.

It’s so beautiful out here, and he is so grateful to be allowed the chance to see it. Even if his skin rises in goosebumps and he wishes he could be as warm as Sir looks in his sweater and slacks.

A soft pop off to his right means Sir has got the wine bottle open, and he hears Sir’s pleased hum as he lifts the top of the bottle to take a whiff of the scent of the dry red inside.

There’s a cocktail you can make with a good dry red. Baldur knows the recipe for it, locked in his head with everything else he’s trained for, twisted up in half-memories of a large cream-colored room with a bar in it and four other boys just like him, all of them sleepless and shadowed and afraid. Rum, red wine, lime juice, simple syrup. Shake and strain into a wine glass.

Shake just enough, not too much, don’t get it wrong or you don’t get fed. Don’t even blink for too long, don’t look away from the bartender they brought in to train them, don’t lose focus.

Pay attention

“-you think, darlin’?”

Baldur jumps a little, feeling a shiver of fear through his skin as he tips his head back, hair settling in a curtain of reddish-blond that the darkness turns to a deeper red halo. He can just see Sir, upside down from his angle, eyebrow raised, head tilted.

He’s been remembering having to pay attention and forgot to actually pay attention.

“Did you hear me, Baldur?” Sir pours his own wine, glass tipped just so. The little camp lantern is all the light they have tonight, a little circle of warm yellow-white lighting up the gray and orange plaid of the picnic blanket, turning the edges of Baldur’s hair to copper-gold, dancing hints of brilliance along the green of his collar, dyed to match his eyes.

It lights Sir’s face from below, giving him the horror-movie shadows of a vampire, a villain. Baldur shudders, just a little, at the way it turns his face to putty all pushed out of shape.

“I, I, I’m sorry, Sir,” Baldur says quickly, turning his voice a little airy, the way he was taught to do, giving Sir the softest look in his wide green eyes. Slightly unfocused, turning Sir’s face from putty to a suggestion of shape through fogged-over glass. “I was, was remembering, I was was was-”

“Baldur…” Sir’s voice is gently chiding, and Baldur swallows the words back down where they belong. “Silence is-”

“Better than, than stammering, I know. I’m... sorry, Sir,” He is rewarded for his apology with a warm chuckle that makes Baldur’s toes curl against the grass where his feet have settled just off the edge of the blanket. The little blades tickle his toes and he wants to smile at how wonderful outside is, how grateful he is to Sir for being so kind to bring him out here, for understanding how hard it is for him to get words right, for giving him so many chances to try again.

“What were you remembering, then, darlin’?” Sir yawns a little, covering his mouth with one hand. It’s past eleven o’clock at night - he knows because Sir told him a little while ago - and usually they are both asleep by now, but tonight the only people on the grounds were the people who already knew Baldur existed and Sir had said he was so good, he deserved something nice.

“Training,” Baldur answers honestly.

“Ah. Rememberin’ when I came by to see you, beautiful boy?” Sir takes a sip of his wine, then another, gesturing for Baldur to sit up. Baldur rolls his eyes back up to the sky, a little mournfully, and then pushes himself to sitting, resting his weight on his hands, legs out straight in front of him.

When Sir offers the glass, Baldur lets him tip the smooth edge just to his lips to pour a little of the cool, dry red wine over his tongue. He closes his eyes, thinking about the visits he can kind of remember, behind a wall of sharp-edged blades, of pain. Blurry flashes of wonderful in a never-ending parade of freezing and starving and exhaustion and fear.

A day, here and there, where he was fed real food from fingertips and kept in a warm room with a blanket and a cozy chair, allowed to doze away with his head in Sir’s lap, simple and perfect.

“I remember,” Baldur says, keeping his words slow and careful, and Sir feeds him another sip of wine. “Everything… was terrible… except you.”

Sir chuckles, a low rumble in his chest, and Baldur thinks sometimes he could happily drown in that sound. He lets himself fall back onto the blanket, look back up at the stars. He knows this one is called the Big Dipper, and that one the Little Dipper, but he doesn’t know why, or who told him that. He doesn’t need to know.

“That’s the idea, don’t you think? What I paid for, anyway.” Baldur isn’t exactly certain what his Sir means, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is the way it smells like flowers out here, the Evening Primrose that comes from the gardens Baldur can see from Sir’s bedroom window, sometimes, when he looks out to watch the field trip students with their teachers, wishing his life was like theirs. Feeling like it had been, before.

Baldur’s fingers start to twitch, but he stills them before Sir can see.

He is grateful for the dark, hiding the ways his body wants to move that are not allowed. The night is good for helping him to hide himself that way. The nights and the days when Sir leaves him in the bedroom and Baldur does backflips and cartwheels and every yoga DVD Sir has bought for him until his muscles are worn and weary and it feels like he’s been running, like he’s been allowed to run again.

It is so, so hard to always have to keep still. Sometimes being the pretty statue boy in the bed hurts because his arms and legs want to move, and he has to wait, to be given permission, and only the hallway is long enough to run in, and he has to have permission to go out there, too.

But anything is better than returning to the cold white room in the Facility.

“Do you know the names of the constellations, beautiful boy?” Sir asks, his accent thicker than usual, the genteel southern drawl that sets him apart in this part of the country, where everyone he hears in the hallways and downstairs speaks more like Baldur himself. He likes to listen to Sir’s accent, lilting sing-song softness.

The sound of all the good things he can remember is laced with that voice, slick and smooth, soaking into the folds of his brain and taking up residence in the core of him, warming from the inside out. All the good things come from Sir, will always come from Sir, have always come from Sir. The first food with real flavor fed from his hands, the first touch that didn’t hurt, the first time he was taken out into the world was to be delivered into Sir’s waiting arms.

Even if Baldur doesn’t like his games, the way he gets so twisted up in the phrases and expressions Sir uses that Baldur cannot follow… even so, Sir is the only good thing there is for him.

He must love him, to feel like that.

They told him it was love he felt, anyway.

“No, Sir,” He answers, eyes trailing the stars as though he could raise his hands to touch the velvet darkness between the sparkling lights. He doesn’t tell Sir that he knows the Big Dipper and the Little one.

Baldur sometimes doesn’t say things he thinks. It’s safer that way, to keep the trains running round and round, because if he says all the things he thinks then Sir will give him the pill again and the thoughts go away, dissolve like smoke, and leave Baldur in the awful hazy fog of only one thought at a time.

Sir sighs, a sound of pure contentment, and Baldur rolls onto his stomach, weight rested on forearms and elbows, looking up at him with pure adoration. Sometimes he is terrified of Sir, when he plays the mean games where Baldur isn’t allowed to eat or has to bathe in ice-cold water and see how long he lasts, or the worst one where he has to kneel on pebbles until he cries, and he always cries…

Sometimes, Sir is terrifying.

But in the dark, here - in the breeze and the shifting of leaves in trees, the smell of flowers and in his pretty sweater and slacks and Baldur in just the same… here and now, Baldur is not afraid. Out here, he thinks, he won’t be hurt.

Sir is the reason he left the Facility, the reason he has anything good, ever, at all. Sir will keep him safe from anything that might hurt him now. Safe as houses, Sir would say.

“Without all that noise and the light pollution, it’s a gorgeous view, isn’t it?” Sir swirls the wine in his glass, and Baldur watches the liquid slosh up one side and down and then up the other, a little hypnotized by the motion.

“It… it is,” Baldur says, voice low and soft. He feels a little thrill of something like power when the tone catches Sir’s attention and he feels the weight of his eyes on his face, tracing the lines of his skin like fingertips. The only power he has. “I would… like to be outside more, Sir.”

Sir’s smile widens, his TV-smile, artificially whitened teeth that don’t quite glow in the dark. “Now, darlin’, you and I both know that’s not going to happen.”

“It… it could, though. I can, can be so quiet now.” Baldur’s heart begins to race and he curls his fingers into fists to keep his hands still on the wool that itches against his bare arms. He settles for rubbing his bare feet against each other, at the other end of the blanket, where he hopes Sir can’t quite see him do it. “They taught me to be so quiet, n-no one has to know, Sir, I, I promise, I can be, be, be be so good…”

“Sssshhh.” Sir puts a finger up over his own mouth, and Baldur feels a wash of cold right down his skin from the inside, shrinks back into the dubious protection of his own shoulders, hunching them up somewhere near his chin. “I have a certain reputation to uphold, darlin’. How could I do that if anyone found out about you, hm?”

There’s a sinking feeling in his chest, the disappointment he’s mostly learned not to feel, and Baldur swallows back a protest. It won’t do him any good, and when he speaks up, there’s usually a new game to teach him not to do that anymore. “I… guess you couldn’t.”

“That’s right. I’d lose my career over you, and you are worth quite a bit of money, darlin’, but you’re not worth my ambitions, are you?”

“Are you…” Baldur’s nails dig into his palms, but he holds very still. He’s so perfect, like statue, just like he’s supposed to be. “Are you going to… to hide me, me forever?”

“Not forever, darlin’.” There’s a look on Sir’s face that Baldur can’t quite read, but he doesn’t like it. It’s the same look Sir wears when he’s about to start a game, had some new idea that makes Baldur feel frightened and unsafe even though Sir is the safest person in the world for him. “Just a little while, a few years.”

“A… a few years?” Baldur doesn’t think in years, he’s not allowed to think like that. There are only days, strung together sometimes into weeks but at some point the week starts over and he doesn’t remember how long it’s been any longer.

Years.

Years is so long. Years hidden in the single hallway, moving with careful soundless steps from room to room, years hidden underneath Sir’s desk with instructions not to make a sound, years of days strung together and games he always loses unless Sir wants him to win. How many days are a year? Baldur can’t remember any longer.

Did he ever know?

“Yes, sweetheart. Years isn’t so long, you’ll see.” Sir’s voice is low, and soothing, but Baldur’s jangled nerves don’t react the way they usually do. Instead, the sense of cold and fear and the ball of nervous inside his chest seems to sink even further, settling just behind his heart.

“What, what happens after years?” He asks, looking down at the plaid of the blanket just inside the circle of the camp lantern’s light. Light on one side, dark on the other, the fuzzy line of gradation between the two.

“Hm?” Sir drinks his wine and looks like he hasn’t heard but Baldur is sure he spoke loudly enough.

Somewhere nearby, a bird calls, a high-pitched ee-ee-ee-ee, again and again. The bird’s song is like Baldur’s jangled nerves were given sound.

“After… years. What happens then?” He is so very still. Statue boy, shirtless on the picnic blanket, back collecting drops of dew before morning. If Sir told him to he would stay here all night, shivering on the blanket, waiting to be collected and cared for again.

“Oh, let’s not think about unpleasant things, darlin’.” Sir smiles at him over the rim of his glass, and it looks like he’s enjoying Baldur’s fear.

This is just another kind of game, Baldur thinks. Rigged for him to lose, unless Sir allows him to win.

“You’ll be just fine,” Sir soothes him, almost coos the words, and he moves his hand as though he’ll pet Baldur’s head and then pulls it back at the last second. Baldur’s eyes drop to focus on that hand, those fingers, the denied hint of affection. “But we can’t risk you, sweetheart. I’ve worked far too hard for that. I have plans for my life and I won’t let you interrupt them. You’re a beauty, but no one would think you were worth gettin’ arrested over.”

There’s a silence, broken only by the bird’s high-pitched cry. He can’t think of what to say, so he says nothing at all. Baldur rolls back onto his back, looks back up at the stars, and shivers, wishing Sir had let him wear a shirt out here.

It felt fine before, but suddenly he feels so, so cold. Cold down in his bones, cold in the fear that beats alongside his heart, cold in his palms and his toes and his nose. His fingers want so badly to tap and he has to work so, so hard to keep them still. It twists the fear up tighter in his heart when he can’t get it out through his fingers.

You are frozen, he tells himself, in a voice far stronger than the one he is allowed to use to speak. You are frozen and can’t move because you are icicles now, icicles don’t tap. Stillness is better than what you do. One thought at a time, one movement at a time, everything with a purpose, nothing without one.

“You understand, right, darlin’?” Sir pours himself another glass of wine. He doesn’t offer Baldur any this time.

“Yes, Sir,” Baldur says, softly. I understand.”

The stars seem less brilliant now, and so much further away.

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pureamericanism · 3 years

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In Praise of Johnny Appleseed

by Vachel Lindsay

In the days of President Washington, The glory of the nations, Dust and ashes, Snow and sleet, And hay and oats and wheat, Blew west, Crossed the Appalachians, Found the glades of rotting leaves, the soft deer-pastures, In the forest. Colts jumped the fence, Snorting, ramping, snapping, sniffing, With gastronomic calculations, Crossed the Appalachians, The east walls of our citadel, And turned to gold-horned unicorns, Feasting in the dim, volunteer farms of the forest. Stripedest, kickingest kittens escaped, Caterwauling “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” Renounced their poor relations, Crossed the Appalachians, And turned to tiny tigers In the humorous forest. Chickens escaped From farmyard congregations, Crossed the Appalachians, And turned to amber trumpets On the ramparts of our Hoosiers’ nest and citadel, Millennial heralds Of the foggy mazy forest. Pigs broke loose, scrambled west, Scorned their loathsome stations, Crossed the Appalachians, Turned to roaming, foaming wild boars Of the forest. The smallest, blindest puppies toddled west While their eyes were coming open, And, with misty observations, Crossed the Appalachians, Barked, barked, barked At the glow-worms and the marsh lights and the lightning-bugs, And turned to ravening wolves Of the forest. Crazy parrots and canaries flew west, Drunk on May-time revelations, Crossed the Appalachians, And turned to delirious, flower-dressed fairies Of the lazy forest. Haughtiest swans and peacocks swept west, And, despite soft derivations, Crossed the Appalachians, And turned to blazing warrior souls Of the forest, Singing the ways Of the Ancient of Days.

And the “Old Continentals In their ragged regimentals,” With bard’s imaginations, Crossed the Appalachians. And A boy Blew west, And with prayers and incantations, And with “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” Crossed the Appalachians, And was “young John Chapman,” Then “Johnny Appleseed, Johnny Appleseed,” Chief of the fastnesses, dappled and vast, In a pack on his back, In a deer-hide sack, The beautiful orchards of the past, The ghosts of all the forests and the groves– In that pack on his back, In that talisman sack, To-morrow’s peaches, pears and cherries, To-morrow’s grapes and red raspberries, Seeds and tree-souls, precious things, Feathered with microscopic wings, All the outdoors the child heart knows, And the apple, green, red, and white, Sun of his day and his night– The apple allied to the thorn, Child of the rose. Porches untrod of forest houses All before him, all day long, “Yankee Doodle” his marching song; And the evening breeze Joined his psalms of praise As he sang the ways Of the Ancient of Days.

Leaving behind august Virginia, Proud Massachusetts, and proud Maine, Planting the trees that would march and train On, in his name to the great Pacific, Like Birnam wood to Dunsinane, Johnny Appleseed swept on, Every shackle gone, Loving every sloshy brake, Loving every skunk and snake, Loving every leathery weed, Johnny Appleseed, Johnny Appleseed, Master and ruler of the unicorn-ramping forest, The tiger-mewing forest, The rooster-trumpeting, boar-foaming, wolf-ravening forest, The spirit-haunted, fairy-enchanted forest, Stupendous and endless, Searching its perilous ways In the name of the Ancient of Days.

Hear him asking his friends the eagles To guard each planted seed and seedling. While the late snow blew from bleak Lake Erie, Scourging rock and river and reed, For Jonathan Chapman, Johnny Appleseed, Johnny Appleseed, As though his heart were a wind-blown wheat-sheaf, As though his heart were a new-built nest, As though their heaven house were his breast, In swept the snow-birds singing glory. And I hear his bird heart beat its story, Hear yet how the ghost of the forest shivers, Hear yet the cry of the gray, old orchards, Dim and decaying by the rivers, And the timid wings of the bird-ghosts beating. By the hour of dawn he was proud and stark, Went forth to live on roots and bark, Sleep in the trees, while the years howled by– Calling the catamounts by name, And buffalo bulls no hand could tame, Slaying never a living creature, Joining the birds in every game, With the gorgeous turkey gobblers mocking, With the lean-necked eagles boxing and shouting; Sticking their feathers in his hair,– Turkey feathers, Eagle feathers,– Trading hearts with all beasts and weathers He swept on, winged and wonder-crested, Bare-armed, barefooted, and bare-breasted.

The maples, shedding their spinning seeds, Called to his appleseeds in the ground, Vast chestnut-trees, with their butterfly nations, Called to his seeds without a sound. And the chipmunk turned a “summer-set,” And the foxes danced the Virginia reel; Hawthorne and crab-thorn bent, rain-wet, And dropped their flowers in his night-black hair; And the soft fawns stopped for his perorations; And his black eyes shone through the forest-gleam, And he plunged young hands into new-turned earth, And prayed dear orchard boughs into birth; And he ran with the rabbit and slept with the stream, And he ran with the rabbit and slept with the stream, And he ran with the rabbit and slept with the stream. In the days of President Washington.

(Hear the hoof-beats of deer in the snow. And see, by their track, bleeding footprints we know. See conventions of deer go by; The bucks toss their horns, the fuzzy fawns fly. Faint hoof-beats of fawns long gone From respectable pasture, and park and lawn, And heartbeats of fawns That are coming again When the forest, once more, Is the master of men.)

Long, long after, When settlers put up beam and rafter, They asked of the birds: “Who gave this fruit? Who watched this fence till the seeds took root? Who gave these boughs?” They asked the sky, And there was no reply. But the robin might have said, “To the farthest West he has followed the sun, His life and his empire just begun.” Self-scourged, like a monk, with a throne for wages, Stripped like the iron-souled Hindu sages, Draped like a statue, in strings like a scarecrow, His helmet-hat an old tin pan, But worn in the love of the heart of man, More sane than the helm of Tamerlane, Hairy Ainu, wild man of Borneo, Robinson Crusoe–Johnny Appleseed; And the robin might have said, “Sowing, he goes to the far, new West, With the apple, the sun of his burning breast– The apple allied to the thorn, Child of the rose.”

Washington buried in Virginia, Jackson buried in Tennessee, Young Lincoln, brooding in Illinois, And Johnny Appleseed, priestly and free, Knotted and gnarled, past seventy years, Still planted on in the woods alone. Ohio and young Indiana– These were his wide altar-stone, Where still he burnt out flesh and bone. At last his own trees overtook him, at last his own trees hurried past him. Many cats were tame again, Many ponies tame again, Many pigs were tame again, Many canaries tame again; And the real frontier was his sun-burnt breast. From the fiery core of that apple, the earth, Sprang apple-amaranths divine. Love’s orchards climbed to the heavens of the West, And snowed the earthly sod with flowers. Farm hands from the terraces of the blest Danced on the mists with their ladies fine; And Johnny Appleseed laughed with his dreams, And swam once more the ice-cold streams. And the doves of the spirit swept through the hours, With doom-calls, love-calls, death-calls, dream-calls; And so once more his youth began, Johnny Appleseed.

Then The sun was his turned-up broken barrel, Out of which his juicy apples rolled, Thumping across the gold, An angel in each apple that touched the forest mold, Each red, rich, round, and bouncing moon That touched the forest mold. He saw the fruits unfold, And all our expectations in one wild-flower-written dream, Confusion and death sweetness, and a thicket of crab-thorns, Heart of a hundred midnights, heart of the merciful morns. Heaven’s boughs bent down with their alchemy, Perfumed airs, and thoughts of wonder. And the dew on the grass and his own cold tears Were one in brooding mystery, Though death’s loud thunder came upon him, Though death’s loud thunder struck him down– The boughs and the proud thoughts swept through the thunder, The vista of ten thousand years, flower-lighted and complete. Hear the lazy weeds murmuring, bays and rivers whispering, Listen to the eagles, screaming, calling, “Johnny Appleseed, Johnny Appleseed,” There by the doors of old Fort Wayne.

In the four-poster bed Johnny Appleseed built, Autumn rains were the curtains, autumn leaves were the quilt. He laid him down sweetly, and slept through the night, There by the doors of old Fort Wayne.

#america #American poetry #Johnny Appleseed #vachel lindsay #poetry #indiana

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bitchardhendricks · 4 years

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Well I’ve Never Been to Heaven (But I’ve Been to Oklahoma) Pt 10

So. The last couple weeks have been...A Lot. Both personally and y’know from an entire racial equity uprising perspective, and I’ve felt very much that my responsibility was to read, learn, understand, listen, and be quiet. No one needs to hear a white girl writing about white nerd boy problems right now. But I realized after a couple weeks that when I got overwhelmed, or when I needed to relieve the pressure valve on my emotions, I turned to the same form of comfort I always have - stories. Stories about characters I love, whether they’re in tv, movies, fic, whatever. The comfort of those stories allowed me to rest just enough that I could wake up the next day and keep reading, learning, listening. So it may seem silly, this meandering tale of these two flawed men confronting the past and the future together, but reading stories like this helps me feel sane enough that I have the energy to keep trying to do better. I hope this one helps you, too. Catch up on previous entries here, and come say hi in my inbox and let me know what you think.

***

After lunch, they head 1 mile east until they reach an unremarkable long, squat building with a faded green roof hanging down nearly halfway to the ground and obscuring the store front, held up by a series of flared white cinderblock columns. This elongated hut takes up the better part of a city block, and as they pull into the cracked parking lot, Richard spies Jared’s face lighting up as he reads the sign.

“Gardner’s Used Books, CDs, Videos, DVDs, Toys, Comics, Records, Collectibles, Gifts...my goodness, that’s quite a treasure trove!”

“You have no idea,” Richard says, bounding out of the car and up to the front door in quick strides. The tables set up under the roof’s overhang hold boxes and boxes of books, lining the entire front of the building, but Richard doesn’t stop to look at these. “Bargain books,” he explains as Jared pauses to scan some of the titles. “You find some great stuff, but you can pay outside so I usually do that last.” He points to an old Folgers coffee jug with a slit cut in its plastic lid. A sign above it says 50 CENTS OR 3/$1, but Richard’s attention is now focused on entering the front door, the familiar jingle causing a rush of nostalgia that works its way into his guts.

He’s 16 again, acne-riddled and knock-kneed, and his new driver’s license is burning a hole in his velcro wallet. The dusty scent of old paper and ancient carpeting is commingling with the aroma of hot oil, onions, and sizzling meat from the bookstore’s attached Mexican restaurant. He has $37 in his pocket, and a whole day of summer vacation to burn.

As present-day Richard takes in the familiar organized chaos, Jared nearly walks into a gargantuan statue of the Hulk because he’s looking around at the stacks of books piled everywhere, muttering a sheepish, “Excuse me!” to the statue. A bubble of warmth seems to rise from deep within Richard’s belly, and he grabs at Jared’s wrist to redirect him - that thin, elegant wrist, so delicate, almost like a bird, maybe that’s why Jared likes birds so much, because he feels a kinship with them? - and tugs gently. “C’mon. I wanna show you around.”

Richard leads them to the left, past rows and rows of new arrivals and fiction. A coffee shop has been added on; all the decor is aggressively Parisian in a very bland Hobby Lobby-type way. There are wire shelves hanging off the walls holding the top 20 best selling mysteries of all time. Tall wooden shelves in the middle of the room stretch from floor to ceiling, arranged in small mazes that take up their respective corners, crammed with colorful paperbacks. Jared pauses at the Mary Higgins Clarks for a moment, but Richard urges him on by saying, “Wait, there’s more!”

Another archway, this one opening up into a cavernous beige room with a little more natural light. Small rolling footstools are perched in every aisle so customers can reach the tops of the towering shelves, and with each new shelf, Jared’s eyes seem to grow wider. “Does it just go on forever?” he asks, and Richard nods, steering him past Romance and Horror to the seemingly endless Nonfiction shelves. Cookbooks, humor, foreign language - the section names are taped to wooden beams that extend between the tops of the rows of bookshelves until finally they reach the Computer Science section, which Richard presents with a grand flourish.

“This is where I got my very first coding manual. Python, it was--” he scans the shelves, squints, but, “oh, um well they don’t have it now. Duh, why would they, that was, anyway, this is where it all started!”

Jared takes in the shelves with a look of absolute wonder lighting up his face. He looks young and carefree in a way Richard isn’t sure he’s ever seen before, like he’s about to burst into song in a musical or something. Before he can say anything, Jared has his phone out, the sound of the camera shutter in his face making Richard jump. “Aw, c’mon Jared, don’t,” he says, but his voice is teasing, soft, and there’s a pleasant whispering at the back of his mind at the idea of this place meaning something to history maybe. Where the first seeds of Pied Piper took hold, and the genius coder Richard Hendricks took his first step toward...toward having everything taken away from him by Hooli and Gavin Fucking Belson. His insides are suddenly doused in ice-cold water and he shakes his head, scowling.

He’s just about to tell Jared to browse by himself for awhile when he’s stopped short by Jared gasping loudly, “Oh my goodness!”

He’s turned to look at the shelf opposite the Computer Science section and is now holding a light green cloth-bound book in his hands as if it were something made of exquisite, delicate glass. The cover has what looks like colored pencil drawings of two yellow birds sitting together on some branches, and Richard leans closer to read the title out loud - “Birds That Every Child Should Know. By,” he pauses, looking up at Jared for confirmation, “Nelt-yah Blanchan?”

Jared nods, dumbstruck. He looks positively bowled over, and all thoughts of Gavin have fled Richard’s mind completely because he wants to know what could possibly have made Jared so flabbergasted. “So...what is this book? I mean, why’s it - what’s so special about it? Is it rare or something?”

“It is rare, yes; this book was published in 1907. But, that’s not exactly...” he swallows, then looks at Richard with those terrifyingly blue eyes, the ones that root Richard to the spot and peer inside him and refuse to let him squirm away. “My mother had a copy exactly like this. We would go birding together, you see. Just in the woods behind our apartment complex, nothing too exotic. I would spot robins, orioles, blue jays, but ah - “ his smile grows shaky, like it’s trying unsuccessfully to hold up the weight of all those memories, and he says, “I just never thought I’d see this book again, that’s all.”

“Wow,” Richard says, his upper lip caught in his teeth at his own awkwardness. He never knows what to say when Jared mentions his past. Real helpful, Richard, Jesus fuck. “You should um, you should definitely buy it. Right?”

“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly afford, it’s an antique--”

“Jared, come on. You have to. It’s - look, I’ll buy it for you, ok? As like. A thank you present. For coming with me. You have to deal with my parents, deal with me, and it’s just...it’s the least I can do.”

Jared splays one enormous hand over his chest, aghast. “Richard, you don’t have to--”

“Bup bup bup!” Richard says, easing the book out of Jared’s grip and peeking inside the front cover at the price. $26 is penciled in the top right corner of the title page, which seems more than fair for how happy Jared is to have discovered it, so he snaps the book shut and tucks it under his arm to carry. “Done and done. No arguments, Jared. Okay?”

“Okay,” Jared says quietly, his cheeks pink and his eyes shining, looking at Richard like he’s some sort of miracle, some unexpected wondrous hero, come to slay dragons and save the kingdom from wreck and ruin. It takes longer than strictly necessary for Richard to wrench his gaze away.

“Come on, there’s a lot more of this place to see.”

#jarrich #silicon valley hbo #sv squad #richard hendricks #jared dunn #sv fic #my sv fic #Well I've never been to Heaven

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lu-undy · 3 years

Text

Chapter 41 - SBT

Here it is!

"M?"

No answer.

"Hey, M? You listenin'?"

Mundy almost got startled when Eddy snapped his fingers right in front of his glasses.

"Huh? Sorry mate, I didn't hear you…"

"Man, you seem to have gone so far away in your head, I wasn't sure I could bring you back to Earth."

"Yeah, sorry…"

"What were you thinkin' about? You were all slouched over the counter and your eyes were half-closed n'all… and what's that dumb smile?!"

Mundy frowned. He didn't know he had been smiling on the outside, even though he had been wearing a grin internally for hours now. He straightened his back and felt some wetness at the corner of his lips. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Eddy's eyes snapped wide out of surprise.

"Have you been droolin'?! What the hell's wrong with you, man?!" Eddy looked in the direction in which Mundy had been staring through the window. "Only reason I'd drool like that is if there's a bomb of a girl outside, but I can't see any! What've you been starin' at?!"

Eddy squinted to see the people passing in the street outside of his shop better. None of them were the 'bomb of a girl' that he expected to find. Mundy grumbled.

"I uh… I fell asleep, that's all."

"You fell asleep?! You fell - man, your eyes were wide open!"

"Whatever…"

Eddy sighed.

"Somethin's on your mind, man, and it's something new, I can tell you that much!"

"Eddy…"

"Whatever it is, I've never seen you like that. You ok?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Anyway, you were sayin'?"

"I was talking about those blokes who're buyin' more and more rifles from competition."

"Don't they buy some from you too?"

"Yeah, they do. But the overall selling of hunting stuff, and rifles in particular, is fuckin' blooming!"

"Why aren't you happy about it?"

"Man, I don't know… It doesn't feel like those are folks who just want to get a bit of huntin' for sports. Let me tell you something about them. See, when they came, they'd always…"

And Mundy's thoughts were warped away from Eddy's words. They came back to that man, that mongrel…

He had laid his head on Mundy's forearm and looked up to him, with his light blue, almost grey eyes. With the bandages he was wearing on his face, it was probably hard to tell for someone who didn't know. But Mundy knew. Oh yes, he did. He had seen Lulu, his perfect skin, his poetic hair, his alluring eyes…

That man was L. And L was Lulu. That meant that L actually looked like…

"Gosh." Mundy said out loud, his eyes opening wide and round.

"I know! It's puzzlin' me, but I'm sure it's puzzling lots of other guys, eh." Eddy put his hands on his hips. "Actually, I had a chat the other day one of them, Fred, the guy works at that other shop at the corner between…"

Mundy was off again. He hadn't said 'Gosh' to answer Eddy. He had said it because he now saw L as Lulu. That face, where tears had rolled as he had sung, was L's. That hair that flew and brushed the air beautifully, that was L's too. And God those eyes, and those lips… All those were L's too…!

"Mate, that's just bonkers…" Mundy said aloud again.

"It is, isn't it?"

Mundy put his hat that was laying on the counter back on his head and took a deep breath.

"M?! You haven't been listenin', have you?"

"Sorry mate…" Mundy wiped his face. "Can't quite focus."

"Why? Is anything' wrong?" Eddy seemed genuinely concerned.

"Nah, mate." Mundy stood off of his stool. "On the contrary, I think."

"What d'you mean?"

Mundy was now at the door. He looked up at the bright blue sky.

"I don't know…"

And he left the hunting shop. He walked in the streets, feeling as light as a feather, almost as if he was hovering above the ground.

The events at the Frenchman's hotel had happened a few days before but since then, Mundy had been on a high that he couldn't manage to land from.

And when his brain rewinded the events, he could feel it in his chest. There was a kind of warmth that he couldn't get enough of. It was intoxicating in the sweetest way. He felt fuzzy, his legs were jelly as he walked on the pavement and he revelled in that feeling. Everything around him was different. Even the air he breathed had a different scent and a different taste on his tongue.

All that because of what?

Because of that man who laid on his forearm. And Gosh, the look he gave him… L has the most poetic eyes Mundy had ever seen. That gaze he gave him was mellow, he was blinking slowly and it went straight to Mundy's insides. He was all flushed and his breath had cut short. He could feel his heart beat in all kinds of places.

But now, Mundy found himself missing that new and oddly satisfying sensation. Those ripples of tremor that had rolled inside him like waves. If he wasn't so shy, he would have done something, anything.

But God, how hard it is to do anything when those ice blue eyes were riveted on him… Like daggers, they pierced inside him. With irises that fair on his own, Mundy felt as if L could read his very thoughts, his most intimate ones. And it had scared Mundy. What if the Frenchman could know the effect his eyes only had on him. Bugger…

And Mundy started wondering. What would he have done if he had the strength, the courage, to do anything but melt in a puddle of heat on that sofa. And he dreamed it all with open eyes, as if it was happening in front of him. Mundy saw himself turn to L, lean his head on the Frenchman's, close his eyes, hold him close, inhale his perfume, exhale pure and sweet agony. The agony of knowing now that what he felt inside himself wasn't something he had allowed himself to feel for decades.

That feeling that had his mind stuck on those eyes, that man; and however hard he tried to tear his mind off of that vision, his thoughts like a rubber band would snap back on that moment, and all the others. All those moments when L, or Lulu, would make him feel good, because he was there, he cared, and if Mundy was to disappear abruptly, at least, someone would worry this time.

Mundy sighed. He had walked through the streets, his feet guiding him because his mind wasn't there at all. No, his mind was fabricating all kinds of scenarios, an endless fan spreading possibilities like a mad painter would toss colours on an eager, buzzing canvas.

He saw L leaning on his shoulder, closing his feline eyes because he felt safe with him. He saw himself looking down at his soft, silky locks of coal and cinder, burning to lose his fingers through them. He saw the icy blue eyes rise to his own and eyelids half-closed with arched eyebrows, the black eyelashes fanning the air like delicate butterfly wings. He saw the silhouette of the body that Richard had described as 'made for modelling', with proportions worthy of being immortalised in statues, and admired. He saw long and slim fingers, hidden behind dark gloves of poetry and mystery. What would it feel to touch them? Shivers shot through Mundy and his shoulders tensed as a reflex. What would it then feel to touch his naked hands, those he saw him use to stroke Perle…

Mundy bit his lip. That kitten was extremely lucky and he understood why she chose the Frenchman. Where else in the world would you be the safest, but in the arms of the one who can kill and refuses to get killed for you? Nowhere, quite simply. Perle must have felt that. She must have sensed that Lucien would do anything for her, for her safety and her well-being.

Ah, how he talked to her was a sight to behold too. He did it tenderly, with affection, and he didn't just call her 'my baby'. He treated her like his baby, worrying about her, asking Mundy to lower his voice to not wake her up…

He must have been a very loving father, a good one; someone who wasn't afraid to show his feelings and support his son emotionally.

Mundy sighed and kicked a rock on the pavement.

L must have been a very different father from Mundy's. Mike could be loving too, but he was extremely stubborn. Each new argument they started was one they never finished, and each time they would come back to it, they would never really come to an agreement. Maybe Mundy was as stubborn as his father, maybe that was why. In any case, since Mundy's voice had cracked, him and his father started drifting away. It lasted until the old man's last breath.

"Hm…"

Mundy's hand pushed a door that his subconscious deemed familiar enough to do it without his conscious agreement.

"Oh hey, M!"

Hearing his name made Mundy snap back to reality. He blinked and looked around as if he discovered the place all over again.

"Your and L's table is free. Go ahead, I'll be a minute."

Mundy obeyed and only when he sat down on the banquette did his mind register the fact that he was at Victoria's diner. The young woman soon came at his table.

"So, what will you have?"

"Coffee and a croissant, please."

Victoria raised an eyebrow and smirked.

"What?" M asked.

"Nothing."

"You sure? Why the smile then?" Mundy himself was now smiling too.

"Alright, it's just that you and L order the same things. I could guess what you want by telling you what he had a few days ago when he came here."

"Really? Well… Eh… He's French, he knows your coffee and croissant are good."

"So do you, mate, but you're not French, are you?"

"Heh, nah I'm not."

"Wish you were?"

"Well, I'm startin' to learn the language."

"Are you?" Victoria was surprised. "Oh, wait, give me just a second, I'll fix your food and be right back, ok?"

"Sure."

And in a minute, Victoria came back. She put the coffee mug and the pastry on the table before sitting opposite Mundy.

"So, learning French, eh?" She asked.

"Bah, just catching a word, here and there."

"How come?" She asked.

Mundy took a good sip of his coffee and raised his eyes from his mug to Victoria's eyes.

"I uh… I got to know a few French songs, good stuff really, and I wanted to understand what they were sayin'."

"I see…"

Victoria let her sentence hang in the air and watched as Mundy started his croissant. He didn't get it. She let the silence weigh and stared at him. Why and how L could fall for that man, she could see. He was simple in a very true way, when L was a man of artifice, of ruse, of tricks. L was someone who liked having control over everything, he liked knowing everything and being in a position where nothing could catch him off guard and possibly hurt him. On the contrary, M seemed to let life guide his steps without questioning its mysterious ways. He just moved at the rhythm of the days and the nights, he was very much in the present, when L was always trying to live in anticipation, guessing what would happen next.

And Victoria was understanding it. L had fallen for the simplicity of M, his very natural and true self. He didn't try to shine or please. He was just himself, and very honestly so, while M had fallen for L's charm, his sense of control, that made him feel safe. In a way, they had fallen for the way that each other managed to find some comfort and solace.

Mundy raised his eyes to Victoria and saw her. She seemed to be expecting something.

"What?"

"Come on, say it."

"Say what?" He bit in his croissant again.

"Come on, where have you heard those French songs…? It was L who was singin', wasn't it?"

Mundy almost spat his coffee out as he choked on a bit of croissant.

"Gosh…!"

Victoria let him take his time to catch his breath.

“Are you ok?” She asked.

“Y-yeah… So you know he sings?”

“I was the one to recommend the place to him, so yeah. I take it you know too, then. Have you been to one of his shows?"

"Yeah." Mundy averted his gaze from the young girl.

"And you liked it quite a bit to try and translate it, eh?" She said.

Mundy blushed and shifted on the chair, a bit to the right and a bit to the left. He was embarrassed.

"I-yeah, yeah, it's nice."

"I've been there once. He got me a table with free dinners so I went with my boyfriend."

Mundy raised his eyes to her. She was smiling.

"Wanna know what I thought of it?" She asked.

"Sure."

"M…"

He frowned.

"He's old enough to be my dad and I have a boyfriend, but if he was closer to my age and if I had been single…" She raised an eyebrow and tilted her head. "I mean, it's bloody hard to resist that bloke, isn't it?"

Mundy chuckled, still red in the face.

"I guess it is, eh." He looked through the window, feigning indifference.

"You guess?" She repeated, not believing his nonchalant air for a single second.

His eyes flashed back to her.

"It's obvious!" She exclaimed. "The bloke's gorgeous, he's got the manners and all! I'm sure he's got all of the posh women he sings for at his feet!"

Mundy laughed.

"Well, you're not wrong. He told me he receives heaps of letters from them."

"I'm not surprised!" She added. "The only thing that I can't wrap my head around is how on Earth he is single with all that choice…?"

Mundy smiled, albeit sadly.

"Well, maybe he likes it better that way." He said.

"Pff, bullshit!" She snapped at him like a spring bounces back when you press it. "Nah…"

"What is it then d'you reckon?" He asked, feeling that Victoria had it all thought through.

She looked left and right, as if to make sure that no one around was eavesdropping on them.

"I think he's just after the best person. The bloke can afford it, he isn't unpleasant to look at or to talk to, if just a bit old."

"C'mon, he isn't that old." Mundy said.

"He's got grey hair, the man! I saw it!"

"Yeah, that's gonna happen to you too eh, Victoria."

"Yeah, but in a long time!"

"Hm, guess so."

"You don't seem too bothered by it yourself." She said.

"Bah, why would I?"

"You like them older?" She boldly asked and Mundy's coffee nearly sprang out of his nostrils this time, which made the young waitress burst into laughter.

"Bloody hell, woman…"

"Sorry, but that was super funny…" Victoria rose to her feet. "Gotta get back to it."

She collected the cups and such on her tray and as she took her first step towards the kitchen, she stopped next to him and bent down for her lips to be next to Mundy’s ear.

"He likes you."

She patted his shoulder and left him, jaw dropped, hot, steaming and sweating below his hat. He clenched his fist on the table until the knuckles went white and he breathed fast and short.

What did she mean with that? Did he like him 'like him', or like him 'like him'? Had he told her that or was she just saying what she thought was true? How could she know? He would never tell her, would he?

Mundy took a moment to take a deep breath and calm down. When he deemed himself strong enough for it, he stood up, went to the counter where he paid what he owed and exited. He now was sure, Mundy was indeed hovering above the ground.

He walked, his feet guiding him more than his head as he strolled along the streets, finally seeing the smiles on the passer-bys faces. Families, children, people of all ages, colours and faiths, the rainbow of humanity just enjoying their day. And for once since a very long time, Mundy was amongst them, amongst those who waved at the happy frequency. He saw the spectrum of colours that his eyes had unlearnt to see. The pavement wasn't grey anymore, the sky was of a vibrant shade of blue and the sun was shining brightly.

Even when Mundy entered the poorest district of town, he didn't see the half torn posters on cracked, old walls, where the paint had long washed out. He didn't see beggars as people who suffered. No, they were people who helped and supported each other, a true nucleus of humanity, a family.

"M?"

Mundy stopped sharp. The voice of a child had interrupted him.

"God, you walk very fast, M…!" The poor boy was panting and catching his breath. Mundy squatted down to be at eye-level with him and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Have you been runnin' after me for long?"

"Quite a bit… Ooh, alright, now, Maurice sent me…"

"What did he say?"

"He said you should go and see him as soon as possible. It's not about the man you look for, it's about your friend."

Mundy's happiness plummeted and he resumed a focused behaviour in the blink of an eye.

"Alright, is he in right now?" He asked.

"Hasn't left the house after your friend visited him."

"Right, thanks, kid."

The young boy nodded and walked the opposite way while Mundy headed confidently to one of the houses that led into Maurice's lair. The beggar guarding the entrance let him through without him even having to ask.

"Maurice is waiting for you."

Mundy thanked them and in a few minutes, he entered the throne room of the king of beggars.

"You wanted to see me?"

"Take a seat, M."

Mundy obeyed and removed his hat on the table.

"What is it? The kid told me it's about my friend? Who d'you mean?"

Maurice was sitting at his end of the table. His face told just how deep he was within his own thoughts. He took a deep breath and raised his head to Mundy.

"I came across a piece of information." He started.

"Yeah, and? C'mon, why d'you hesitate that much?"

Maurice frowned. He pouted, bit his cheek, and his eyes darted left and right. He was visibly wavering about something.

"I am not sure I should tell you."

"Well mate, you should have thought it through before. Here I am now, sitting in front of you and I know that there is something." Mundy answered. "Who's the friend that the kid mentioned? Is it Eddy?"

"Non."

Mundy's eyebrows jumped. That sounded very much like a French 'Non', and not like an English 'No'. Strange.

"It is L."

The Aussie frowned.

"Oh, is it about the beatin'? I guess the Doc' told you. It was me, m'afraid. We had a… an argument and uh…"

"Mundy, forget that." Maurice cut him. "I am not talking about a few punches thrown here and there. Non, I couldn't care less about that."

Mundy raised a curious eyebrow.

"What's the problem then?"

"The piece of information I have come across…"

"Yeah?"

"It… It did upset him."

Mundy frowned again.

"What d'you mean?"

"He stormed away from here and God knows if he will go to the end of his mission now."

"His mission? Well that's pompous if anything… But what was it that you learnt?"

"Mundy, do you know what L is? Did he ever tell you?"

Mundy shook his head.

"Nah, he said he would never tell me and I would never understand it. Wait, hold on, do you know that? Is that what you came to know?"

"Non, God, non… I already knew what he was, who doesn't…" Maurice sighed. "Well, I will not be the one who will tell you. In any case, what I wanted to tell you is that he might need a few more days. He might also decide to, well, at best delay his mission, at worst, abandon it completely."

"What are you on about?!" Confusion was painted all on Mundy's face.

"I don't know if you should go to him and try to lift his spirits up or leave him alone. But given the state he was in when he left, I must tell you this: if he decides to abandon his duty and disappear for another ten years or more, and if you still want it, I will continue to help you get the man who killed your parents."

"What the hell are you talking about now? 'If he decides to abandon his duty and disappear'? What kind of nonsense is that?!" Mundy asked, baffled and slightly worried now.

"I would tell you to go and ask him, but I am afraid he might already be gone."

Mundy's heart stopped.

#tf2 sniper #tf2 spy #sniperspy #SBT

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